Famous Last Words
by Loreskee
Summary: She's a semi-average mystery author living in central London, across from a not-so-average hat detective and his 'helpmate'. Of course, when one interacts with the great Sherlock Holmes, one is often scared off. Not her. But when Moriarty is thrown into the mix, things begin to get messy in multiple ways. James Moriarty, infatuated with an angelic young woman. What could go wrong?
1. Chapter 1 - Neighbors

**Just a warning, this is a** ** _practice run_** **. I am seeing if you people like this story. If you do, I'll continue. If you don't, I'll wait. Keep in mind that this chapter has** ** _NOT BEEN EDITED,_** **so there's probably be a few mistakes. Other than that, I have to go through the usual disclaimer. I do not own Sherlock, John, or any other characters that belong to BBC and Steven Moffat and that lot. I don't mind fan-art, in fact that would be flattering. Just if you share it on the internet, please send me the link, 'cos that'd be really cool to see how people interpret my character. Same thing on the bottom, so don't bother reading it.**

 **~ Lore XD**

* * *

Chapter 1

Neighbors

 **(First POV)**

"Yeah, gun shots, _again_ ," I sighed exasperatedly, looking across my flat and through the window to the opposite room, getting a clear view of a man firing a gun at his wall, "I don't know what they get up to across the street. One time I saw him wrestling some guy in a turban. Makes for good inspiration, however distracting it may be."

"Why don't you head over and confront them?" asked Ellie on the other end of the line, "Unless…OHMYGOD! ARE YOU LIVING ACROSS FROM TERRORISTS!?"

I laughed at how absurd that sounded, though I was beginning to feel as though confronting them may be a good idea. I had been plugging out my next novel, the fourth in my incredibly popular series ' _Masters of Disguise_ '. "Yeah, I think I _will_ go check them out," I grinned, ignoring her yell of 'NO!' from the other end. "I'll be fine, and besides, I've been bored. Suffering from writer's block, and all that, maybe a gunfight would help me get this show on the road."

"How are you still alive!?" Ellie giggled.

"No idea."

We shared a laugh and I hung up, putting my mobile down and going to change into clothes that weren't so, revealing. I had almost forgotten to change out of my bra and sweatpants, but that was no way to greet new neighbors. Though, they may not mind it, since one of them was always bringing home one girl or another. The other, as far as I could tell, was completely insane and may have worked for the police. There were sirens up and down the street what felt like every night, and so many days, too. I couldn't stand the racket, which was why I needed to go and get them to at least respect the peace that many of us preferred to the sound of bombs going off.

I pulled on a tank top over my bra and decided that jeans would suffice, pulling my sweatpants off and slipping my jeans up my legs. I was too lazy to pull on socks, so I just slipped my feet into slippers and stuffed both my phones into my pockets. One for friends and one for work. The work one I had never used, but I still carried it around out of habit. I opened my door and walked down the stairs, across the street, and rang the doorbell for the flat across from mine.

"Sherlock!" I heard from inside, "Someone's here to talk to you! Oh for god sakes, fix your door bell!"

The door opened and I fixed a smile on my face. After all, first impressions were everything when meeting your gun-wielding neighbors. I kindly-looking older lady looked cheerfully up at me, "I'm sorry dear, you can head up. He's in a right old state, never answers the door. I keep telling him to get it fixed, but…" She spoke over the gunshots as she led me upstairs. I didn't want to seem nosy, so I didn't ask any questions about her tenants.

When we made it up to the landing, she opened the door and called, "Sherlock, will you stop it, you've got a guest!"

"Yes, I know," he drawled, sort of draped over the sofa and shooting a-was that a smiley face made out of bullet holes? In the wall?! Jesus, he really was insane.

"Hi, I'm-

"Our next door neighbor, I already know," he said, focusing on me, "Were you ever planning on getting rid of the binoculars?"

I blushed. I had, in fact, been using binoculars to spy on them whenever something interesting was happening. But how had he known? "No, I'm not psychic," he sighed, and I stared at him. For someone who lacked ESP, he sure was good at reading my mind. I turned around and the woman had left. A second later she bustled into the room, carrying a platter of tea.

"Do you know why I'm here?" I asked, taking the mug the woman offered me. As far as I could tell, she was their housekeeper. Why didn't I get a housekeeper? No fair.

"The gun, undoubtedly," he sighed. The other man who lived with them walked into the room.

"Sherlock, will you stop it, I'm writing!" he said. He was rather shorter than me, with blonde hair and a frustrated face. He stopped when he saw me, and I waved, smiling at him. "Um…who are you?" he asked. I suppose I do look rather different. It's the eye patch, I know it, though my hair looks a bit strange, as well. Gold and white, completely genetic, no hair dye whatsoever. It went with my 'code name', or my code name went with my appearance. All white and gold, with a black eyepatch thrown into the mix. I did look rather like a sci-fi pirate or something.

"I'm Equinox," I told him, holding out my hand to shake, "Your neighbor."

He took my hand, nodding, "John. Is that…uh…your real name?"

I shook my head no. "It's the name people recognize," I informed him, "I write books, see, and that's my pen name."

"And the eyepatch?"

"It's not for decoration, I was born with a birth defect in my left eye. Completely blind."

John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock interrupted, "You remove it often, and you take good care of it. The way you're standing suggests that you are used to seeing the entire room. You don't turn your head to look at me when I'm speaking. You can see through it. You do not need it, and so the eyepatch is in fact for show. Don't try to trick me."

I froze, dumbfounded, while John glared at his flatmate, "Sherlock…"

"I was born with a defect in this eye. The other one as well. My parents messed around with chemicals, worked at some place called Bakersville or something." I indicated my gold and white hair. Wavy, gold wrapped around white wrapped around gold, "This is _not_ a fashion statement."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "I suppose it's possible, if your parents messed with your genes as a child. Still, improbable."

"Well, here I am, sue me," I said flatly, turning to go, but then I remembered why I had come and turned back, "And could you please keep it down. The sirens are already enough, do you have to fire a gun because you're bored?"

"How did you know I was bored?" he asked.

"Why does anyone do anything pointless unless they're either bored or addicted or think it fun?" I responded quickly, "You're not addicted or this would happen more often. The wall shows that you don't do it as often as it would be required for an addiction. If you thought it fun, you would be a psychopath and John would be dead. Which leaves boredom."

"I could have another reason."

I raised both my white flecked eyebrows, "Décor? Please."

He stood up, "Mystery novelist. Writer's block. Mother issues, father died when you were young, maybe twelve, probably ten. You moved to London as soon as you could and have lived across from us ever since. You published a few books, and whenever you got tired, you watched us. Tattoos, old ones, so a rebellious childhood that resulted from physical abuse from your mother. Faded scarring around your ankle proves that you grew up near woods and didn't know them very well, distinct bear trap pattern. You didn't tell us your real name, so you don't trust us, but you did come over here, so you're not so mistrustful after all. You have two phones, one in each pocket, the one on the right is slightly more worn, showing that you use that phone more often. The one on the left old as well, but the phone looks as though it's never been used, so you keep it with you out of habit. You're wearing very little, so you're not afraid of what we think, but you've been polite, so you do care about first impressions. You haven't asked us as many questions as I may have expected, but then again, you only came to tell me to quit shooting. You weren't afraid to come over and confront a man with a gun, so brave. But not very brave, or you would not be standing in such a fashion, turned so that you can now see me, leaning towards the door. Those slippers wouldn't get you far, though, the stairs are slippery."

He said all of this in the space of thirty seconds.

I turned to look at John, but he had already left. "How did you-

"Consulting detective," he said, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling.

"But you're-you're-

"Far more intelligent than you, so don't try to imitate me. Buh bye."

"But you did get one thing wrong," I hastened to inform him. He turned to look at me and I stood a little straighter, "Mom's dead, too."

"But then…" he paused, apparently sizing me up. He stood too and I took a sip of tea, waiting for him to realize what I meant. Finally he got it, "An orphan at thirteen."

I merely nodded, waiting for him to continue. "Then most of the abuse came from the kids at the Foster Homes. Sexual as well, apparently, and then you tried to hang yourself. Twice. Now why would you-

"You're not the only person who gets bored," I said, glaring at him, before walking out. I felt his gaze leave me a second later, as I tried not to trip on my way down the stairs. He was right, they _were_ slippery.

* * *

"No, he said he was a detective, not a terrorist," I told Ellie over the phone as I walked back from Speedy's with a cup of coffee and a scone, "Though he wasn't very nice either. He told me my life in one minute. Even knew about the suicides. How would he know about the suicides?"

"I dunno, but I imagine it found its way into the paper somehow."

"But the caretakers wanted to keep it quiet!"

"You did jump from the banister, people were bound to find out," Ellie rationalized, "I was there. I'm surprised you didn't just fall and hope it killed you."

"I don't think I was done with life yet."

"All this death talk has got me sad. Do you wanna tell me about the guy?"

"What guy?" I asked as I entered my flat and slipped my boots and coat off.

"You know," Ellie sighed, " _The_ guy. Sherloaf, was it? The _gun_ guy."

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, you told me he was tall and dark, but was he hot…?"

I laughed, "Remember last time you tried to set me up with someone? You can have him if you want, but I'll try to stay out of his personal life. Besides, I _have_ a boyfriend."

"No you don't."

"Don't rub it in."

"I could try to set you up. There's this guy that hangs around the restaurant sometimes, I've talked to him and he's single. Pretty cute, too…"

I was about to respond when **BAM**! "Goddammit!" I jumped.

"Was that the hot one?" Ellie asked, "The tall, dark, handsome one?"

"El, they're firing guns again," I groaned as I pulled my boots back on and slipped a jacket over the wool tank top, "Seriously, I thought I told them to stop!"

"It's only been two days, he's probably forgotten."

"I'm still going to have to call you back. Lunch?" I asked, checking myself in the mirror before pulling on a leather jacket that I hoped would be a little intimidating. I didn't wear slippers this time, the stairs really had been oily.

"No, sorry, I've got a meeting from eleven to three. Some four hour team building shit. Maybe tomorrow, though."

"Right, see you," I said hastily, before hanging up and rushing out the door and across the street, almost running into a disgruntled looking John, who was going the opposite way. We exchanged a nod and I knew that he was leaving for the same reason that I was heading up. I rang the doorbell and the older woman came for it again.

"Mrs. Hudson, seeing as you seem to be coming by quite often," she told me, leading me upstairs, "Are you and Sherlock-

"Oh, definitely not," I laughed, "It's just the noise that's bothering me. It's funny how gunfire distracts me from writing about gunfire."

"Oh! I recognize you! You wrote those detective books! What was it again?"

"Masters of Disguise?" I prompted, and she nodded excitedly.

"Oh, I loved those books, though the whole thing was rather violent," she winced.

"Based off my childhood," I informed her, and she looked taken aback. I entered the room, grinning at the look on Mrs. Hudson's face, and saw Sherlock, sitting in the same couch as before, firing at the wall and not even looking. I flinched as another bullet found its target. The face on the wall was almost complete, which annoyed me.

"I thought I told you to stop!" I yelled over the bangs of his pistol, and he finally stopped to look at me.

"Yes, you did."

"Yet you're doing it again!"

"Bored."

"What?"

"Bored. Bored, bored, bored!" Every time he said that he fired once more at the wall.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you!?" Behind me I heard Mrs. Hudson enter. She seemed so nice, I was almost jealous. Still, Mrs. Devyn was kind, if not a little strict, and always put in an order for my books when they came out, bless her. She never did my shopping, however, and she certainly never brought me tea. It got kind of lonely, actually, and I wondered what it would be like if I went looking for a flatmate myself.

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson told the sulking man as he crossed to the window, ignoring me, "A nice murder-that'll cheer you up." A nice murder? Wow, this man seemed crazier than I'd expected. The only people I'd ever heard use that term were me and my friend Blaze.

"Can't come too soon," he sighed wistfully. I ogled him, which he further ignored.

Mrs. Hudson finished her unloading and went to take her bags back downstairs, but stopped at the door. She had just noticed the smiley face. "Hey! What've you done to my bloody wall?!" Sherlock smirked at his 'masterpiece' on the wall. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man." Then she left, muttering to herself about how rude young people were these days and whatnot.

"Why on earth would you fire a gun at the wall?" I asked Sherlock, who had moved to stand at the coffee table and was grinning exaggeratedly at his work.

"I said bor-

 **BOOM!**

An explosion erupted from the wall near the window, throwing both Sherlock and me back into the wall. I think I must have blacked out, but not before I tumbled down the stairs to the landing below. I heard a groan from upstairs, Sherlock probably, and the next thing I knew, some guy whom I'd never seen in my life was helping me up the stairs, where I was plopped down on the sofa, and then I think I must have passed out again, because I can't remember much of what happened for a few hours.

When I finally came to, I discovered that I was lying on John and Sherlock's couch with a throbbing head ache and what I hoped wasn't a broken rib. I sat up groggily as everything around me began to come into focus. Sherlock was playing music, which I couldn't hear very well, while the man from before argued with him. Their words faded in and out of focus, like my vision, but I did hear phrases like "national importance", and "lives at stake". Suddenly John burst through the door, shouting. Both men ignored him, and I was too tired to care, as well as too busy taking in my surroundings.

Papers and pieces of splintered wood and glass littered the floor, yet another reason not to stand up. I felt my head and flecks of dried blood peel off onto my fingertips. From what I could tell, it was a nasty cut, but it wasn't bleeding any more. It'd leave a mark, though, that was for sure. Still, my first explosion. That sure was a new experience. I groaned as my ribs gave another twinge and I pulled my shirt up to my belly button. Nothing seemed out of place as I felt around, but my abdomen was almost completely black and purple.

"Oh my god! Equinox, are you alright?" It was John, bless him, he at least had noticed my pained existence. He came over and sat down next to me to check me, saying, "It's okay, I'm a doctor."

"Thanks," I winced as he pressed the bruise, "I don't think anything's broken."

"I saw it on telly. Are you okay?" John asked, standing up to go talk to the violinist, leaving me to fend off uncomfortable pings from my head.

"Hmm, what? Oh yeah, fine. Gas leak," Sherlock said distractedly.

"Well there's a first," I mumbled and they all looked at me.

"What?" John asked.

"I've never been caught in a gas leak explosion before. Time to scratch that off the bucket list-wait! What about my flat!?"

"Fine. The one next to it exploded, but yours seems alright," Sherlock informed me, going back to the violin. I yawned, relaxing. If my laptop was destroyed, my laptop with all of my work on it, I would be reacting completely differently. I just couldn't wait to go home and write about my gas explosion experience to reference in later chapters. However, I kind of wanted to stay and watch what happened.

"Five quid says someone planned this," I piped up and Sherlock nodded at me. John rolled his eyes and Mystery Man ignored me, going back to trying to convince Sherlock of something. I tuned them out, only vaguely interested, and instead made sure that my boots wouldn't slip off, before standing up and walking to the door.

"Wait," John called, and I turned back, a little annoyed. New sentences were already floating to the surface of my mind, and I wanted to type them out ASAP.

"I've really got to go," I told him, "Writing stuff, you know."

"No, I mean you might have a concussion. It'd be a good idea to get you to the hospital for them to check it out."

"Listen, I know you mean well, but honestly, I've been through way worse and lived, so…"

"Doctor's orders."

"Oh my, it must be serious," I laughed sardonically, and then I winced as my skull twinged once more. "Fine," I sighed, "Should I wait, or…"

"I imagine you won't have to wait long," Sherlock called indifferently with a pointed glare at the man who rolled his eyes in return. I looked around for a mirror to make sure my eyepatch was fully covering my 'blind' eye, and when I found one over the mantle, I found that it hadn't moved at all. I did not feel very relieved, however, when I saw the cut across my forehead. It didn't look too deep, but there was a purple bruise where my head must have hit the wall. My golden eye was as unnerving as ever, and my hair was all disheveled as well, so I took to trying to get it slightly less chaotic as the man and Sherlock said their 'goodbyes'.

"Think it over," the man (whom I later learned was Mycroft, to make it easier) said to Sherlock, leaning over him threateningly. He then turned away, "Goodbye, John." They shook hands and Mycroft gave a somewhat creepy smile, "See you _very_ soon." I really wanted to yell "GAY!" but I figured that'd be rude, so I instead stood, rooted to the spot, as John responded and Mr. Mycroft left the flat without so much as looking at me.

Sherlock went back to playing, glaring at Mycroft's receding backside, while John voiced his question, "Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on-not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

I waited.

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugged.

I waited some more, briefly considering that Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers.

"Oh," John sighed, seemingly realizing something, "I see." His eyes drifted to Sherlock and he nodded, "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock was about to say something, probably deny it, but the phone ring interrupted him and he picked it up to talk. "Sherlock Holmes," he said into it, and then he listened for a little bit, "Of course. How could I resist?" Some more listening, and then he clicked the phone off and placed his violin on the chair.

"What?" I asked, half to remind them that I was still there.

"Lestrade, I've been summoned," he told John, "Coming?"

"If you want me to," John said.

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."

John nodded turned to me, "Wanna come? We could take you to the hospital afterward." Sherlock shook his head behind John, and I grinned. Sounded like I would be hearing an actual detective interaction with the police. Plus Sherlock didn't want me to come. Better and better.

"Sure," I smiled, feigning innocence. Sherlock flashed me a dirty look and went down the stairs. I followed John, wishing that I had a notebook on me. From now on I vowed to carry a notebook wherever I went in case this type of opportunity came up again (which it did countless more times).

* * *

The ride to the police was rather awkward, because I was stuck on the receiving end of quite a few glares from Sherlock. I merely grinned back, enjoying annoying him. _That's what you get, you bastard_ , I wanted to tell him, but again, rude. He seemed to realize what I was doing however, and went back to ignoring me. We arrived at Scotland Yard and I hopped out, literally jumping for joy. I had a good feeling about this.

"What are you excited about?" John asked me as we entered the station, following Sherlock.

"I love this type of thing," I grinned. He just looked away and followed Sherlock, no doubt wondering if it had been a good idea to let me tag along. Too late now.

People looked up at me, mainly because I looked like a bloody pirate in a leather jacket, with fricking white and gold hair stained with blood and purple that showed through my white shirt, but I was too happy to care. Many of them probably recognized me, since I was sure police read my books as much as any other person. I was rather well known, after all.

We met a man on our way and he walked with us. I assumed this man was Lestrade, the guy who'd called Sherlock earlier. "Who's she?" Lestrade asked, obviously referring to me.

"Neighbor."

"And you brought her along?"

"Oi, I'm right here you know," I said, "Equinox, at your service." He did a double take, staring at me, and I smirked.

"The author?"

"Yep."

"Why are you here?"

"Cos I'm bored and John invited me. I was in their flat when it was blown up. And the eye patch _isn't_ for show," I finished, glaring pointedly at Sherlock, who scoffed.

"Uh huh…" Lestrade muttered, wrenching his eyes off me and turning to Sherlock with a hint of urgency, "You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?"

"Obviously."

"You'll love this. That explosion..."

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

"Yes!" I fist pumped.

"No?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes and handing me five quid.

"No. Made to look like one," Lestrade informed us.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box – and inside it was this." Lestrade handed Sherlock an unopened envelope. I couldn't wait to see what was inside. This sounded like a good mystery story.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked the Detective Inspector.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade said, "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock sighed, picking up the envelope and taking it to another table with a lamp. He held the envelope up to the light and examined it, taking in the rather pretty handwriting on the front, by hand. "Nice stationery," Sherlock said when he was done, "Bohemian."

"What?" Lestrade asked and I had to admit I was wondering the same thing.

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No."

"She used a fountain pen," Sherlock said after staring at it for another few seconds, "A Parker Duofold – iridium nib."

"She?" John and I asked in unison.

"Obviously."

John apparently struggled not to roll his eyes, "Obviously!"

Sherlock slit the letter carefully open and I waited in suspense. I was disappointed, however, when it turned out to be just a phone. I had hoped we might have received a message from our bomber. But my mind was already hard at work thinking up theories on what the stunningly pink mobile phone could be and why we'd been given it. "But that's – that's the phone, the pink phone," John gasped from next to me, and I looked up, perplexed and intrigued.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked, and my bewilderment grew. Was this a code of some sort? No, more likely a previous case. I waited for someone to explain it to me, but no one did.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone," Sherlock began, "but it's supposed to look like…" He suddenly turned to Lestrade, "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?!"

"'Course I read his blog! We _all_ do! D'you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?" A black woman who had come up to us at some point in the conversation scoffed. Sherlock glared at her, and I smiled. John seemed embarrassed for some reason, and it took me a minute to realize that some people didn't necessarily was people to read their writing.

The woman left the room but I stopped her. "Equinox," I reached out to shake her hand, "And you are?"

"Sally Donavon," she said, shaking my hand, "You know the freak?"

"Unfortunately," I sighed, guessing correctly that she meant Sherlock, "We're neighbors and I got dragged into this."

"That's a nasty cut you've got there," Sally said, "An eye injury. An eyepatch, though?"

"I wear it anyway, birth defect."

"Ah."

"I was just wondering if there's a bathroom anywhere nearby. I've so far neglected to clean this cut, and I want to see how bad it is."

"Down one level," Donavon said, "Sorry, the one up here's out of order."

"Thanks," I smiled and caught the elevator down.

When I made it to the floor below, I hopped out of the elevator and nearly ran into someone. Two people, actually. "Oh my!" yelped a small, young woman in what appeared to be a lab coat of sorts. A scientist of some sort, I was sure of it. Behind her a man about my height grabbed her to keep her from banging into me.

"Oh, sorry," I said quickly as the man let go of her and we all relaxed, "Just looking for somewhere to clean this." I gestured to my forehead and went on.

"Wait!" called the woman, and I stopped to let her speak. "Molly Hooper," she said, "I can help you clean that if you want. This is Jim, by the way."

"Hi," Jim said.

"That'd be great," I grinned, "Because I'm starting to feel light headed. Jesus, John was right, I should probably go to Bart's. I'm Equinox, by the way," I said, doing a little mock bow, "At your service. Or vice versa, considering I can't really be of much service at this point." I leaned against the wall to keep myself upright. I really was feeling dizzy, but I hoped I didn't look that bad. Then again, I looked like an escaped science fiction pirate lab experiment at best, so…

"Jim, if you bring her to the bathroom, I'll got grab a sponge and a flash light to check for concussion," Molly said, running to a janitor's closet to grab the supplies. I followed Jim down the hall, where he opened the unisex bathroom door for me and followed me inside. I sat down next to the sink and waited for Molly to return. A lot of people here were nicer than I'd thought.

"So, John?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, he's my neighbor. Him and Sherlock, funnily enough. God, I hate Sherlock," I muttered, reminding myself of how infuriating he was with another painful twang.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah."

"And you're that author!" he exclaimed excitedly, "Why do you have an eye patch?"

"Everyone asks me that! I have a _birth defect_! Is that so hard to imagine?!" I burst. Thinking about Sherlock had put me in a bad mood. Molly came in a minute later, carrying a small white sponge and one of those mini flashlights. She tossed Jim the sponge and he soaked it and padded my forehead while Molly shined the flashlight in my eye.

"This one's fine. Do you mind if I go, I've got a report to give? Jim, if you could check the other eye…" and Molly left the room. I felt a little awkward, letting a complete stranger touch my face.

"I should probably check your other eye," he said, reaching toward the eyepatch, but I stopped him.

"I'd prefer if you didn't, actually," I growled. He raised his eyebrows and stared at me skeptically, but I was pretty sure he was trying not to smirk.

His voice changed, as well as his accent, from English to Irish in a heartbeat, "Feisty."

"Stop it."

He sighed, "Seriously, take it off, if I don't do this, Molly'll kill me. _Off_."

* * *

 **Just a warning, this is a** ** _practice run_** **. I am seeing if you people like this story. If you do, I'll continue. If you don't, I'll wait. Keep in mind that this chapter has** ** _NOT BEEN EDITED,_** **so there's probably be a few mistakes. Other than that, I have to go through the usual disclaimer. I do not own Sherlock, John, or any other characters that belong to BBC and Steven Moffat and that lot. I don't mind fan-art, in fact that would be flattering. Just if you share it on the internet, please send me the link, 'cos that'd be really cool to see how people interpret my character. Same thing on the bottom, so don't bother reading it.**

 **~ Lore XD**


	2. Chapter 2 - Jim

**Hey guys. Here's the second update and thank you** _ **so**_ **much for your support. As usual, I don't own Sherlock or any of the other characters like Jim. Just a warning, the whole Moriarty x OC thing will take a while before it really starts to go in that direction for them. Constructive criticism or any other type of criticism is welcome and will always be welcome, so don't be a stranger. For those of you who didn't already know, I'll be updating ever week, and probably on Wednesdays.**

 **~ Lore**

* * *

Chapter 2

Jim

 **(1** **st** **POV)**

I sighed and stared at him, trying to get him to quit with just a glance, "What happened to the accent?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, "You noticed?"

"Why? Should I not have?"

He licked his lips and looked me dead in the eyes. His eyes were brown, though they almost looked black, and there was something off about them, like there was something dark hiding behind them. His face was clean shaven and his hair was as dark as his eyes.

"I thought you were just a writer."

" _Excuse_ me? _Just_ a writer? Offensive!" I snapped and he chuckled.

I realized that his hand was sneaking behind my head and beginning to slip off my eyepatch. When I grabbed his arm he laughed, "You're stalling."

"You noticed?" I imitated him, and he grinned.

"You are very good."

"Stop. It."

"Stop what, dear?"

"Stop flirting!"

"How dare you accuse me of such tactics?" he pouted, raising both of his hands in the air and trying to hide a grin but failing epically and turning away. When he turned back I was already at the door.

"Buh bye Jim, try not to get killed."

"So you want to keep me alive, that's a good sign. Buh bye Nox," he waved mockingly and I left, making sure that my eyepatch was still in place.

"Only my friends call me Nox!" I called over her shoulder, enjoying the opportunity to insert my name into a quote from my first book. I didn't think he got it, but he laughed anyway.

"Just speeding up the process," he yelled back as I turned around and got inside the elevator. He was standing a little outside the door. _What a creep_ , I thought, _and the accent thing? Jesus, that was over the top. Still…he was rather attractive. But being a perve outweighs being attractive, creating a stalemate leading to a hateful relationship. Damn it, I'm comparing my life to my books._ Damn _it._

I made it back up to Lestrade's office, but the others had already left. "What happened?" I asked.

"They left fifteen minutes ago," Sally called from her desk, "Don't worry, he does that a lot. I wouldn't put my trust in him if you're looking to help."

"Not help; watch," I lied, more and more pissed by the minute, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to my work." I exited Scotland Yard, deciding that since I had time to burn I might as well walk home. I needed the exercise anyway, and I had time to mull over everything that had happened so far and form an argument for why I should be allowed to help Sherlock with the case.

It took what felt like no time to get back to my flat. Time really does fly when you're alone with your thoughts. I went up and sat down on my bed, pulling out my friend phone whilst removing my eyepatch and calling my friend Gemma. "Hey, Gem, you around?"

"Oh, thank god Skye, I thought you were dead!"

I laughed. El and Gem were two thirds of the population that inhabited the BFF zone. The other one was Blaze, one of my darker friends. She was my personal editor, so all of my chapters went through her first, though she was also a surgeon who worked at Bart's in trauma care. It was no wonder she was so unfeeling, it was her way of coping with everything she witnessed.

I had other close friends, of course, but these three were the only ones that had experienced everything that I had, same foster homes and everything, and had been steadfast friends through it all. The day we all got out, we agreed to change our names and move into London, get jobs, and stay friends through it all. It had most definitely worked out.

"Why would you think that?" I asked.

"The gas explosion, silly!"

"Don't worry, I'm fine. No one got killed or anything. Hey, do you wanna come over sometime? I'm getting bored and you haven't been by in a while."

"Does tomorrow work?"

"Sure, but I might be with El as well."

"Oh! El told me that she was trying to set you up with someone. I volunteered to partake," Gem told me, and I practically could hear the smirk on the other end of the line.

I giggled, "Good luck. Honestly, I think it'll be hilarious. Some people have actually sent me marriage proposals. Only once a year or so, but still, I'd like to get out of their line of fire. So, hit me, who are you guys planning."

"Well, there is that pretty neighbor of yours, and then El knows a couple people who go to her shop, I know of a woman if you're into that type of thing, and Blaze's got money put aside for four pints of Ben n' Jerry's and some horror movies if it doesn't work out."

"Horror movies?"

"Says it always works for her."

"Sounds about right," I laughed. We all laughed about our quirks because it was much more fun than remembering why they had come about in the first place. Ellie had trust issues, huge ones; that was why she was so attached to us; she had no one else. When we'd been in the homes, she had been one of those kids that trusted too easily, and she'd been physically and mentally scarred because of it.

Gemma was a hairdresser and makeup artist, she had gotten out easiest. We had all resented her in the beginning, because she had been a bit of a suck up, but then we'd realized that she had been brought up as almost a slave, like a house elf. She was made to serve, and had to be careful not to be taken advantage of. She had since grown better at keeping her OCD in check.

I was a daredevil. Brave to a fault, and incredibly sarcastic. If a gunman barged into my room right now, I'd probably congratulate him for getting his thick skull through the door. It wasn't that I wasn't aware of the consequences, but that I didn't care. That might've been why I was so drawn to helping Sherlock, because it'd be dangerous. I didn't mind it, but I had nearly died about five times since getting out of the system. Sometimes I wondered if the suicide had just been to see how fun it'd be to swing by my neck.

Blaze, on the other hand, had gotten out worst by far. Borderline sociopathic, she had been like me back in the beginning. We had been the Fred and George Weasleys of the foster homes, the ones always getting in kicked out, but the way she and I had handled it was different. I got used to the pain of rejection, withstood it, but she had found a way to shut it out. That only further provoked the other kids, and soon Blaze was the most scarred of any child in there. She had shut out any empathy, any restraints, and without us she would probably be a terrorist. But we loved her for it all the same.

"So, when shall I meet my fellow victims?"

"We could all meet at Speedy's tomorrow and discuss it."

"Sounds good if Blaze can come. I bet she can get an extra fifteen added to her lunch break," I grinned, writing it down on the calendar that hung next to my bedroom door, "Tell them lunch."

"Kay then…anything else?"

"No, but I might have a surprise when we all meet."

"Meanie."

"Gasp. How dare you?!" I laughed, "Okay, see you."

"Bye."

"Buh bye." I hung up before she could get the last word and flopped back on my bed. I pulled a pair of earbuds off of my bedside table and connected them to my phone, going into iTunes and turning on some Dubstep, wondering how they would react when I told them about Jim from the morgue.

* * *

A few minutes later I heard a disturbance behind my door. I got up and went to see Sherlock standing outside my flat. "We need to talk."

"Busy," I lied.

"No you're not."

"But I was just debating how to get hit by a bus without killing myself." This wasn't a lie, I had been planning how best to let a bus roll over me without ending up in the hospital. Not that I'd ever test it or anything… He rolled his eyes and came in anyway.

"Nice place," he said, "I need to borrow it."

"No!"

"Why not, you want to help don't you?"

"This is my flat, use your own," I growled, blushing as he went through my apartment, over turning things and opening things and checking my fridge. A second later John showed up at my door as well.

"Sherlock! We've only got twelve hours left! Think!" he noticed me, "Oh hi Equinox, I didn't know you'd be here." John's mouth dropped open as he saw the interior of my flat, "Bloody hell."

"No, why would I be here, after all, this _is_ my fucking flat and-get OUT of there!" Sherlock was looking around my bedroom, the very same bedroom that was littered with clothes I hadn't bothered to pick up.

He flopped down on my bed, "This'll do, I suppose. A little small, but we can fit everything in here."

I went into my room and pulled Sherlock out by the ear, ignoring his yell of, "Ow!"

"Fit what in here?" I asked as I pushed both him and John out so that they stood outside of my flat door.

"Are these men harassing you, dear?" asked Mrs. Devyn as she squished past my door, "Need me to throw them out?" Mrs. Devyn was built similarly to Mrs. Hudson, except a little older. I wouldn't be able to imagine her kicking two grown men out if I hadn't seen her do it before, on multiple occasions.

"As entertaining as that may be, Mrs. Devyn, I can handle them," I said with great difficulty, enjoying picturing Sherlock being dragged out the door by this scrawny old woman, "They're renting Mrs. Hudson's place."

"Ah, she'd told me about these two," Devyn sighed with a knowing look at John, who just seemed uncomfortable, "Call me if you need me."

"Thanks," I grinned and we all watched as Mrs. Devyn walked away, muttering about the 'pounding' she'd give any man who dared cross her.

"So, why do you need to use my flat?" I asked John, ignoring Sherlock for the moment.

"I have no idea," he shrugged, still gaping at my accommodations, "You must be rich!"

"Yeah, I was," I sighed distractedly, "Sherlock?"

"Someone somewhere is a hostage, and we need a place to keep everything related to this case. If we don't get this all done in twelve hours, the woman dies."

I stood aside, trying not to grin in excitement. Blaze wasn't the only one with a low empathy. We had gone through the same experience, after all. "My room is off limits," I called as Sherlock resumed his inspection. I went to close the door, "And _stay off_ my laptop!"

"Why?" Sherlock called from the other room.

"Spoilers!"

"You don't honestly think that I'd ever read your-

"Sherlock…" John warned, glaring at his flatmate, who stopped midsentence and poked his head out of my kitchen to meet my furious eyes.

"Just for that, I'm _making_ you read my books!" I hissed, but barely containing a snigger of delight at the look on his face. "So, where're you thinking of setting up?"

"In here, I think," he said, and I followed him into my living room, the biggest room in my flat. It had a low glass coffee table, a black leather couch, and a flat screen television. Also a book case and a small lounge couch where I did my reading.

My flat was very nice, since I had quite a bit of money to waste ever since my books became best sellers. My bedroom was a lot of blue, my living room was grey, black and white, my kitchen was green and orange, and my workroom was white and gold. Everything was pretty nice looking, as well as my clothes. Three pairs of shoes; sneakers, boots and sandals. I wasn't crazy about my appearance, since my appearance was crazy enough on its own.

"Keep blood off of my couch and stay out of my fridge," I called, "I'm moving my laptop to my room. Stay out of there as well."

"Hiding anything?" John asked.

"No, but my clothes are everywhere, and you guys are…um…guys." John shrugged again, accepting my bad logic, and I walked away to get myself some lunch. "So, what's going on with the bomb lady?" I asked, pulling out some sandwich fixings and plugging my phones in. I took a bite and put my laptop on my bed, closing the door behind me on my way out.

Silence. John looked at Sherlock, but he was busy sitting on my couch doing nothing, so he explained it instead, "Someone left a pair of shoes in the flat below ours. We got a call on the pink phone. Apparently if we don't solve the puzzle, a woman dies."

"Show me," I grinned, going to grab a small notepad.

Sherlock got up suddenly, "John, we're going."

"Oi!" I yelled, "I'm letting you use my flat, you let me come and help. Otherwise I'm chucking you out."

"There's a woman's life at stake."

I laughed, "I know, fun, let's get going!"

John stared at me, "Fun?"

"Yeah, of course, why no-oh, my psychopath's showing. _Dammit_."

"You're a psychopath?" John asked as Sherlock left.

"No, just crazy. I went through a lot of abuse as a kid, and this is how it manifested itself. Don't tell anyone, or people wouldn't want to buy my books. I don't bite, _often_." John let me go first down the stairs.

* * *

We got back to 221 and Sherlock led us into 221C, where a Lestrade was crouching next to the shoes. "I see you brought an expert," he said sardonically, obviously meaning me.

"Likewise," I coughed. He looked affronted but grinned anyway. "You'd be surprised what I can help you with. I think like the villain as a living, so…"

"Ah, of course, your _books_."

"Yes, my _books_. If you've read them you'll notice that I write as both the villain _and_ the hero. Of course, you'd have to learn to read, but I'm sure you'll get it eventually." He didn't respond, but John chuckled slightly behind me.

"Same guy that bombed your flat?" I asked and Sherlock nodded, "So this is a game?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "Or a test."

"Or both," I laughed, bouncing up and down excitedly, "God, this'll be great!" Lestrade looked like he wanted to say something about my reaction, but thought better of it and shut his mouth.

"Come on then," Sherlock ordered, "You two go find us a taxi. We're going to the hospital." So I was kicked out of the flat, along with Lestrade, who looked a little annoyed, but also used to this treatment. I got the impression that he didn't like me much, and if so the feeling was mutual.

He hailed a taxi and told the driver to wait for two more. While we waited, Lestrade decided that it was his job to start a conversation. "So," he began, shifting from foot to foot, "You're an author. How's the book?"

"Fine."

"And…um…any friends?"

"Yeah."

"Good…um…oh, here's Sherlock."

I stared at him but he was deliberately not looking at me. I shrugged. Alright with me. I'd been afraid I'd have to say more than one word to him at a time. That would have been catastrophic. Instead I was relieved to find myself piling into a taxi with John and Sherlock. Lestrade had decided he'd catch the next one to Scotland Yard instead.

"Do you have a recording of the call?" I asked Sherlock, and he shook his head no. I wanted to check the time, so I went to pull out my phone, and that was when I realized it. " _Goddammit_! My phone's gone!"

"Do you need it?"

"No, but I like to have it on me. Whatever, I'll check it when I get home."

"Where are we going, anyway?" I asked, "Hospital, right?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"To analyze where these shoes came from."

"Ugh, boring," I drawled, "When do we get to _shoot_ people? Or _get_ shot, I'm not picky."

"Getting shot isn't fun, I don't even know how you could believe that it would be," John sighed, staring at me, insulted.

"Won't know until I try," I shrugged.

"Do you look for pain?"

"Of course not, I just invite it in for tea whenever it rears its beautifully hideous head. I keep a kettle on the boiler and biscuits on the table in case I get a surprise visit, like getting hit by a car."

"You are a very strange woman," Sherlock coughed.

"Made that deduction yourself, did you?" I laughed sarcastically.

He raised one eyebrow and looked at me. I was sitting next to him this time, and John was glaring at us like _get a room, you two._

We arrived and I popped out of the taxi, blowing white hair out of my eye. We were at St. Bart's hospital. Not the name, but I called it Bart's anyway, because it was way shorter and everyone always knew what I was talking about.

"Why are we hear?" I asked.

"Lab," Sherlock responded, and we followed him into the hospital, down two sets of stairs, and into… (Gasp) a lab. It had all sorts of microscopes and science-y stuff, and it was dimly lit as though the people that worked in here _wanted_ eye damage. I voiced this opinion, but no one seemed to care so I left it alone. I scribbled down a couple quick notes on the room and what I saw, and then I sat down in one of the chairs and got to work sketching some of the contraptions I saw. The other two ignored me, and I them, so we got on pretty well.

About ten minutes later Sherlock was getting to work examining the trainers and I was watching him to see if I could determine what he was thinking by his actions, when the door opened and Molly walked in. "Hey Molly," I grinned, waving to her, but all she did was look from Sherlock and me, and then back to Sherlock, where her eyes lingered. She didn't look very kind towards me anymore. Pity, she'd been nice.

"Any luck?" she asked Sherlock, disregarding me from that point onward.

Sherlock nearly cheered, "Oh, yes!"

"You sound so excited," I giggled, causing Molly to flash me a look and Sherlock to roll his eyes. John just waited. He seemed to do a lot of waiting. Sherlock and Molly went back to looking at the screen, and I hopped up to go look as well. I didn't get too close, however, because it seemed as though Molly would kill me if Sherlock and I made physical contact. Jealous much?

As I was staring blankly at the screen, which was currently flashing "SEARCH COMPLETE" in big block letters, the door opened. I looked up to see Jim again. Oh God, again? Once was enough, thank you very much. Two times in one day was bad enough, and I was preparing myself for a verbal battle, but this time he only glanced at me fleetingly before looking around. "Oh, sorry, I didn't…"

"Jim!" Molly said, looking up and smiling, "Hi!" Jim tried to leave, nearly confirming my Jedi Mind Trick abilities, when, "Come in! Come in!" Damn Molly's Jaba the Hut immunity to mind tricks. Jim seemed to overcome my 'mind control abilities', and came in to stand next to Molly. Sherlock looked up, and in one instant looked back down at his work. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, introducing Sherlock and only Sherlock. Surprise, surprise.

"Ah," Jim said, looking at Sherlock almost the exact same way Molly was. I shrugged, looking back at my notes. So far, it consisted mostly of sketches, but I did have a couple of notes that I would be sure to look over while I was making my plan for the next few chapters: bombing, insufferable, creepy, analyzing through materials on sole of shoes, split second deductions, use word 'deduction', etc. Nothing ground breaking, but maybe someday I could write a book about "Understanding Sherlock Holmes, a Handbook on Handling the Bastard".

"And…uh…sorry," Molly was saying, and I realized she had forgotten John's name.

"John Watson, hi," John said, extending his hand.

"Hi," Jim responded.

"And you know her," Molly said, indicating me with a tilt of her head.

"You were so nice," I muttered under my breath, "It's been barely thirty minutes." I could've sworn I saw Jim wink at me, and I rolled my eyes. Jeez, give up already. As far as I could tell, he was back to London accent, so that was strange, but I only vaguely registered it because I was too busy thinking about what came next.

"So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes," he said, addressing Sherlock who had neglected to look up since his introduction, "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

"Jim works at I.T upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly and Jim giggled at each other and I gagged. When Molly looked away I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of _well, your_ boyfriend _was hitting on me fifteen minutes ago, so I wouldn't recommend a long term relationship,_ but Jim raised his eyebrows at me.

While Molly continued to explain their relationship, he came over on the pretense of looking at my notes and leaned down to whisper in my ear. "Jealous?" No one noticed, which annoyed me. Sherlock was _supposed_ to notice everything.

"You wish," I whispered back, and I felt him chuckle, his breath was on my neck which gave me the urge to bite him or slap him or something. "Stop breathing on me!" I hissed, and he stuck his tongue out and walked back to stand next to Molly.

Sherlock looked up at the movement and then looked back down at the microscope he was using. "Gay." I almost laughed at the look on Molly's face as she tried to keep smiling.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock looked up and I face-palmed. Sherlock had evidently not realized that he had said something offensive until now, and he tried to cover it up with, "Nothing! Um…hey."

"Hey." Jim put his hand down on the end of the counter and knocked over a metal dish. "Sorry, sorry!" He bent to pick it up and put it back down on the table. John joined me in the art of face-palm-ism shortly after. Jim looked a little embarrassed, which surprised me since he didn't seem the type to be self-conscious, and he backed up nearer to Molly. "Well, I'd better be off. See you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?" he finished, asked Molly, but his eyes definitely flashed to me the second before Molly responded.

"Yeah!"

He slipped his arm behind her back, "'Bye."

"'Bye."

"It was nice to meet you," Jim said, directing this to Sherlock. He didn't look up, too absorbed in his work, and I wasn't saying anything for him, so John had to say it.

"You too." Aww, John the Interpreter. That would be the title for one of the chapters in the handler's handbook. John Watson, the suspiciously intimate friend of Sherlock Holmes…

Jim left the room shortly after, but not before looking at me one last, fleeting time. I felt as though I should go talk to him, but if I did I'd miss the entertainment.

"What d'you mean, gay?" Molly said immediately after the door shut, "We're together!" John and I exchanged a look, that vow-of-silence look that I got whenever El and Blaze were fighting over something.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half!"

"Three."

"Sherlock…" John cut in, breaking his silent vow. I couldn't blame him. Insulting a woman about her weight was a declaration of immediate, painful suicide.

Molly was getting angry, "He's _not_ gay! Why do you have to spoil-?! He's not!"

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Because he puts a little product in his hair," John protested, " _I_ put product in my hair!"

"You _wash_ your hair, John," Sherlock explained, "There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

I laughed, "His _underwear_? Wow, you really are observant of what's important, aren't you."

"Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand," he said, reaching for the metal pan that Jim and had picked up, "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here." He showed us a little card with a phone number scrolled on it in rather neat handwriting, "and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain." Molly stared at him for one second, seeming tearful, and then stormed out of the lab. I grinned. Normally I wasn't this mean, it was true, but she had started it. Plus, freakish lack of empathy, so that was making it a bit hard for me to care. And her boyfriend was a prick.

"Charming, well done!" John congratulated Sherlock sarcastically holding his hands up on the air.

"So lemme get this straight," I snorted, "You are unaware that the Earth goes 'round the sun, yet you excel in recognizing gay underwear brands!" They ignored me, so I sat down next to the sink and leaned my head back against the wall.

Sherlock and John exchanged some "domestics" as Mrs. Hudson would call it, and then Sherlock put the number down and moved one of the trainers to a desk closer to John. I stared at it curiously, wondering why they were so special. "Go on then," Sherlock said, and I opened my mouth to speak. "Not you," he spat pointedly, and I pouted.

"Rude."

"And you are?"

"Less rude, Mr. Frown-y Pants."

"Immature."

"Selectively."

"Equinox, shut up. John, you have a go."

"Mmm?" John asked, looking up. I sighed and clawed the skin on my arm, something I did when I was thinking.

"You know what I do. Off you go." Sherlock sat back, arms folded, waiting for John to obey. John just growled and looked at his watch, apparently not wanting a chance to do something useful.

"No."

"Go on."

"I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate-

"An outside eye, and second opinion. It's very useful to me."

"Yeah right!"

 _"_ _Really_!"

John and Sherlock stared into each other's eyes intensely and I had to fight silent fits of giggles. "Should I leave you two alone?" I smirked.

"Yes, that would be marvelous," Sherlock snapped, and I frowned.

"Alright, but if you need my help…"

"Why the hell would _we_ need _your_ help?" Sherlock sighed.

"Because I make a living thinking up puzzles like this, I already know that Jim is definitely _not_ gay, and that means that I'm ahead of you. I won't tell you how, so you'll assume I'm wrong until it comes back and bites you in the ass. Le buh-bye." I stormed out of the lab, imitating Molly. I really needed to talk to Blaze, and it couldn't wait for tomorrow. Maybe she could meet Sherlock. _Yeah,_ I decided, _Blaze should meet Sherlock. Two near-heartless people. Maybe they'd actually hit it off. God knows he needs a girlfriend. Hmmm…_

I was so busy thinking that I ran straight into Jim. "Are you doing this on purpose?" I asked, stepping around him.

"Angry, are you?" he pouted, "Sorry, darling, but I'm off the market."

"Then why're you still here?"

Jim smirked, "I think you know."

"I hope I don't. Why can't you leave me alone?"

"Why would I do that when you're always so fun to speak with?"

"I give up," I sighed, "Sayonara."

"See you soon!"

"I hope not."

* * *

 **Hey guys. Here's the second update and thank you** _ **so**_ **much for your support. As usual, I don't own Sherlock or any of the other characters like Jim. Just a warning, the whole Moriarty x OC thing will take a while before it really starts to go in that direction for them. Constructive criticism or any other type of criticism is welcome and will always be welcome, so don't be a stranger. For those of you who didn't already know, I'll be updating ever week, and probably on Wednesdays.**

 **~ Lore**


	3. Chapter 3 - Call Me Ari

**So here's the third chapter. Sorry, if Jim isn't in it so much. As I said, it starts off slow. I wanted it to be more realistic, and if _I_ was being romanticized by a "gay" psychopath, I definitely wouldn't let him win so quickly. More fun that way. I don't own Sherlock, John, Jim, or any other original Sherlock character. I almost wish I did, but then it would be strange to write fanfiction on 'em.**

* * *

Chapter 3

Call Me Ari

 **(1** **st** **POV)**

A few hours later, Blaze and I were sitting on my couch, chomping on popcorn and watching Batman: Dark Knight. We were laughing at the Joker as he shot his allies. We had just begun this movie, so we were enjoying watching the Joker place a grenade in the mouth of some banker guy and drive a school bus out of the bank. We had a feud with Gem and El, which superhero movie franchise was better. It was Marvel vs DC in this. I admitted Marvel normally had a better backstory, but DC had the Joker. I _always_ sided with the Joker.

I looked over at Blaze. She had recently re-dyed her hair, a light shade of red that got progressively lighter as it reached the tip, where it was sunshine yellow. Her head looked, to say the least, on fire. Though it wasn't as weird as Gem's, who frequently dyed her hair different shades of purple, blue and green. Last I'd seen her, it'd been soft pink in the top, transitioned to blue, and then green at the bottom. I hadn't recognized her.

There was came a series of bangs on the door. I looked up and sighed, "Do you mind? My neighbor is using my flat to solve a mystery and stuff."

Blaze's green eyes lit up, "Not at all!"

"Come in!" I yelled, and I heard the door open. I quickly slipped my eyepatch on again. I never kept it on when I didn't have to.

"How did you know he wasn't gay?" asked Sherlock immediately barging into the living room. Blaze looked up, interested, and paused the movie so as not to miss anything. Murder may be important, but nothing beat the Joker.

"He was hitting on me earlier," I sighed, "Plus, I have my ways of finding out if a guy's gay." Blaze and I exchanged a giggle and Sherlock noticed her.

"Ah, another one. Lovely."

Blaze stopped laughing immediately and stood. I recognized this as "socio-mode" as we liked to call it. It meant she was trying to be intimidating, and so far only Gem, El and I had refused to give in. Sherlock didn't seem impressed.

"Borderline sociopath, another orphan. Interesting, how many scars do you _have_?

"Lost count," she growled, and I could feel sparks flying as the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I didn't fancy trying to separate Blaze from one of her enemies, only because I could only take so much blood loss before passing out, but Blaze just sat back down and turned the movie back on. This was new.

"What is it, Sherly?" I asked, looking up.

"We need to set up a mini lab."

" _Why?_ "

"Because we've only got-don't call me Sherly!"

"You've only got what?"

Sherlock glared at me, "We've only got six hours left before the woman dies."

"So? What d'you need me for?"

"I need you to come with me and grab all of the stuff relating to Carl Powers."

"Austen Powers?"

"Carl Powers! Died in a swimming accident! Those were his shoes."

I sighed exasperatedly, "Fine. Coming Blaze?"

"Nah."

It was no use arguing with her, she was too stubborn. But when Sherlock turned his back, she mouthed, _he really_ is _hot._ I rolled my eyes. El had told everyone. We'd have a talk about all this tomorrow.

I followed Sherlock out of my building and into his, up the stairs and into his flat. It was a mess, though not as bad as it had been when the bomb went off. I had a feeling Mrs. Hudson had influenced this somehow.

There was a pile of newspaper clippings, the shoes in a plastic bag, a microscope, an assortment of small metal things for science, and the pink phone. "You carry those," he told me, pointing to the pile.

"Hell no," I protested. I wouldn't be able to carry everything at once.

"You wanted to help."

"I'm not a slave, you bastard, you need my flat; you help."

"Fine," he hissed, picking up the microscope carefully and grabbing the shoes in his other hand. I picked up the phone and the newspaper clippings, as well as the box of assorted science shit. We went back across the street and into my flat. He dumped everything on my kitchen table and I grimaced.

"If my flat ends up looking like yours, I will personally rip your throat out."

"You're very rich," Sherlock asked, "Hire a maid."

"Yes, I'm rich, but not _very_ rich. I don't need that much money, so I got a nice flat, furnished it, and save the rest for necessities and friends. I am _not_ hiring a maid. Keep it _clean_."

"I dunno," Blaze called from the living room, "A maid would be pretty funny. She wouldn't get to _do_ anything. She'd just sort of sit there and wait for you to drop something."

"I don't do much with my flat unless they come over," I confirmed, "I don't care about little stuff, but yours needs _serious_ help. Spill any blood on my floor and I'll spill yours."

"Fine."

" _Fine._ "

Blaze laughed from the other room, "He just did the magic trick!" Joker reference.

"Awesome!" I called back and then I turned back to Sherlock, "Where's John?"

"On a job."

"Damn, he's the agreeable one."

"I could say the same to you."

We stood there in cold silence, glaring at each other unlovingly, until Blaze yelled from the other room, "Hey! You two should kiss!" I shot a dirty look at her and stepped around Sherlock to my kitchen table, beginning to straighten out the mess of random shit.

Sherlock, apparently, did not understand the reference. "You should leave, we're going to be getting up to some chemical experiments."

Blaze chortled and I face-palmed. "Do you have any idea what that sounds like?" I chuckled, "For a genius you sure can be ignorant." When he looked confused, I called back to Blaze, "Don't worry, he's gay!"

"I'm married to my work," Sherlock denied indignantly.

"Stage one denial!" Blaze called from my living room, and I heard her pause the movie and stand up. A second later she was leaning against my shoulder and sizing her "opponent" up. "I'll bet you ten quid he's gay," she told me, not bothering to whisper, still staring at him. She may be slightly evil, but she hadn't lost her old sense of humor. She was acting different than normal, though, I hadn't heard her threaten to kill anyone since she'd gotten here.

"I don't like those odds," I scrunched my nose, "But for five I'll take you on."

"Five quid it is." We shook hands, ignoring Sherlock's huffs, and I jotted it down on the little blue notepad.

"Do me a favor and don't be gay," I whispered to him, blushing slightly when the double meaning came to me. I hoped he didn't notice. He did, unfortunately, and looked at me differently than he had so far in my 60 hours of knowing him.

* * *

Three hours later I was draped across my couch with one leg hanging off. Sherlock and I had been "getting up to some chemical experiments", and thankfully that didn't mean sex. Actually we had been doing literal chemical experiments, making me wish that I'd payed more attention in our sad excuse for chemistry in school. I was exhausted, and I'd very nearly fallen asleep, when Sherlock yelled.

"Poison!"

"Wha…" I mumbled, sitting up and rubbing my eye. John, who had shown up a few hours ago, was slumped in my working chair, blinking dazedly at Sherlock. Apparently I wasn't the only one who felt like sleeping.

"Clostridium botulinum!"

"Closet idiom Botox linen?"

"Go back to sleep!" But I was already awake. My eyepatch was slipping, so I readjusted it as I got up and stumbled over to see what he was up to. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet."

"Are we safe?" I asked as John stared at him vacantly.

"What? Of course we're safe," he assured me, but I was still uneasy. I mimicked John's expression, dazed and confused. Sherlock stared at us incredulously, and when neither of us said anything, he exploded. "Carl Powers!"

"Oh, wait…" John coughed, "are you saying he was…murdered?" Sherlock got up to where he'd hung the shoelaces, which happened to be over the faucet in my sink.

"Remember the shoelaces?" he asked, gesturing to them.

"Mmm," John and I said, just wanting to sleep.

"The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."

"What about that…um…that thing?"

"Yeah, how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?" John asked, helping me out.

"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it."

"I wanna get me some 'a that stuff," I muttered, bending down to have a closer look.

"I need your laptop," he told me, and before I could protest, Sherlock ran off to break into my room. He came back with my precious computer in hand and plopped it down a little too vigorously for my taste.

"Be careful with my baby!" I gasped.

"It's just a computer," Sherlock sighed, opening the screen and logging in with my password as easily as I always did.

"Hey, that's password protected," I exclaimed, but he didn't seem to care. I walked to stand next to him as he opened a page on chrome. "The Science of Deduction" was stamped across the URL.

Sherlock was an impressive typist, almost as good as I was, and soon he had written in the message box:

 **FOUND. PAIR OF TRAINERS BELONGING TO CARL POWERS (1978-1989)**

"Wait, if it's virtually undetectable, than how did you-

"There were still tiny traces of it left inside his trainers from where he put cream on his feet."

"Ah, I should've known," I scoffed, flopping down onto my couch and listened to the calming, methodic ticking of my keyboard as Sherlock finished off his thought.

"That's why they had to go," he murmured, as though I'd never said anything.

"So how do we let the bomber know…?" John voiced, and it was a pretty important question.

"Get his attention…"

"And how do we-

"…stop the clock."

"The killer kept the shoes all these years."

"Like a trophy?" I asked.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded.

"Meaning…"

"He's our bomber!" I finished, sitting up again. The pink phone rang, and that very moment I heard the telltale buzz of my text alert go off on my coffee table. I went to grab my friend phone, wondering why they would still be awake, but that one was silent. Instead my work phone was vibrating, creating an annoying clatter on the clear glass.

I froze for a second, wondering what the hell was going on, and then I slowly lifted the phone off of the table. Sherlock was interrogating someone over in my kitchen, but everything faded to background noise as I read the following text:

 **Well hello there, Skye. Welcome to the game. We're going to have** ** _so much fun_** **. XOXO**

"Sherlock!" I called, bringing my phone to show him. My insides were freezing. Literally no one had this number. I didn't even _know_ this number.

"What?" he asked indignantly.

"I just got a text!"

"So?"

"Whoever it is, they know my real name!" That made Sherlock pause and look over. I handed him the phone and he read the text. In a second, he handed it back. "It could just be nothing," I said hopefully, "A prank. Skye might be a random choice…"

"When you say your real name, you mean the name you changed to after you gained freedom. Your real name is Skye? Why would you choose Skye?"

"Skylar, but yeah, that's the name I chose. Legally, it's my real name. I chose it because it seemed appropriate. I had Equinox already, and we debated names together."

"So Blaze was…"

"Yes. As well as Ellie and Gemma. Those last two didn't really want to stick out."

"What was your name before you changed it?" asked John from my chair.

"Ari," I said shamelessly, "It was so pretty I actually debated keeping it."

"Well, I prefer it from Skye, so Ari it is," Sherlock said, handing me my phone back, "Equinox is too fictional, anyway."

"No! Not even my closest friends-

"Oh, pipe down, Ari," called John from the chair, "You're right, it is a nice name."

I huffed and stomped off to my bedroom, calling back, "If you're gonna sleep at all, you sleep on the couch!"

"Don't mind if I do!" yelled John, and I heard him get up and go to my living room.

"And take your shoes off!"

"Alright!"

I shut the door and sighed, text message completely forgotten. No one had used my real name in eleven years, since the day we were released at age eighteen. I had gotten a better, online education, and started my rough draft under the name of Equinox.

"Three different groups calling me three different names!" I laughed, "This may turn out to be fun!" And then I collapsed onto my bed, without changing or anything, and snuggled into the top of my covers, too tired to slip under.

* * *

That night I dreamt of demons. It was weird, having creatures dancing through my mind, but also rather entertaining. It gave me a prickling sensation, like that one might get when you're foot is half asleep, except all over my body. I would have to remember this.

I awoke when it was still dark out. At least, about as dark as the city could get. I looked at the digital clock on my bedside table. 5:03 was flashing red against the black pixels. I yawned and sat up. What had awoken me? I was under the covers, I realized, and my eyepatch was off. I hadn't taken it off last night, I had just flopped. I wondered if Sherlock or John had decided to tuck me in.

I slipped out, cursing whatever had woken me from such a sweet, calming dream. What had it been again? I didn't remember, but I knew it was a nice one. I slipped out of bed, and padded down the soft, tiffany blue carpet and out into the shiny wood floor. I went through my kitchen and looked into the living room.

John was snoring on the lounge. Sherlock was lying back on my couch. He had neglected to remove his shoes. I made a mental note to bap him when I woke him up. I decided that, for the time being, however tempting it was to shake them both awake, I should shower and change while they were asleep. _Men_.

I went and grabbed some clothes out of my closet, and then I realized what I was missing. My eyepatch was nowhere to be found. I dropped my stuff and rifled through my room, looking under the bed, through my bookcase, even daring to check my pile of week old clothing; it was gone.

I was beginning to feel frantic, so I hastily went through the medical kit I kept in one of my kitchen doors, pulling out one of those white cotton things you use when you've got an eye injury. I tied it around my head and sighed. It was itchy and didn't feel right, and I couldn't see out of it like I could the original one.

I went to take a shower, hoping that some relaxation would do the trick. All it did was clean me, which was nice and appreciated, but also unhelpful in finding my eyepatch. I couldn't wear this damn thing forever. What if I got contact lenses? No, last time I tried that I discovered my first allergy. Or I could just reveal what was wrong with it in the first place? Maybe…

I got dressed and examined myself in the mirror. I just didn't look the same anymore. Normal jeans, normal black T', all that was missing was my beautiful black eyepatch. I frowned, missing it already. I would have to do a more thorough search when I got back. Right now all I could do was think up an argument for why my friends couldn't buy me a new one. I never let them spend much money on me. Except at Christmas, when we all went out and bought a single big gift for each other and dropped them at each other's apartments at the same time so no one ran into each other.

It was very organized, actually. We went in a loop; I went to Blaze's, she to Gem's, Gem to El's and El to me. We spent ten minutes every place, and then went straight to a movie or a party, so that when we came home we went straight to sleep and woke up the next day to unwrap and call each other to schedule a mini party. I had other friends as well, of course, but none were as close as these three, and none spent nearly as much time with me.

I grinned, remembering the three gifts from last year. The snores from my living room reached my ears and I frowned, _God, I should chew Sherlock out for wearing his shoes on my couch. What if I showed someone my eye? Would it really be so wrong? People do crazy shit with contact lenses these days, maybe looking half demon would be normal compared to what some women do to themselves._

I shrugged these thoughts out of my head. I already had weird hair, and there was a wig in costume shops actually labeled 'Equinox Cosplay'. My friends wouldn't stop teasing me about it, and one year on my birthday, they had all cosplayed as me. It was freaky, what a wig and contact lenses could do. Especially with Gem. She looked like my fuckin' _mirror_.

I pulled the itchy cotton pad back over my right eye, wrinkling my nose slightly. I then brushed my teeth and went to straighten up my room a bit, dumping all of my clothes in a hamper and reminding myself to pull everything down to the laundry some time tomorrow. I then snuck silently back into my living room.

John and Sherlock were sleeping soundly, and I smirked. I tiptoed to sit down on the coffee table careful and bent down so that my face was right next to Sherlock's ear. I waited a second to make sure they were still asleep, and then straightened up again and yelled.

"TOP O' THE MORNING TO YA'!"

They freaked, John falling off of the lounge, cursing every deity known to man, while Sherlock startled awake and nearly choked me. I fell off of my coffee table onto the rug, cackling madly. Sherlock's face, oh my god, that was what made my aching ass worth it. He glared at me indignantly, looking like, what, a meerkat maybe? No, more like an otter. I couldn't tell him this, however, because I was still laughing so hard my chest hurt and I needed to breathe. Finally I managed to gasp, "Your…face…!"

"What was that for!?" John yelled from the couch, massaging his head where he'd hit it on my white wood floor.

"Fun, and I decided it was about time you left," I chuckled, "But I'm not completely heartless, so…coffee?"

"Why're _you_ so happy this morning?" John spat.

"We solved the case, didn't we?"

"No, and you didn't even _do_ anything!"

"Do you want coffee or not?" John sighed and nodded, so I walked into my kitchen and started making them their drinks.

"God, she's so weird," I heard John tell Sherlock. Evidently they had forgotten that there was no door from my kitchen to my living room and had decided to tell each other how strange I was right near me.

"She was traumatized as a child, abused wherever she went in the system, has three good friends and an addiction to pain. Her parents did some sort of experiment when she was either in the womb or a newborn that caused some changes in her DNA. She sounds like a science fiction monster, but more than that she's famous, so people all over the world are commenting on her appearance. She has three names, you noticed, and by using her original we have established a connection with her. You heard her, _not even my closest friends call me that_. So we are a different party, and not to be associated with the fans or friends." _Hmm,_ I thought, _super detective boy talking about me behind my back, explaining why he's calling me my old name to his puppy dog and suspiciously intimate friend, amongst passes on my appearance. Seems legit._

I poured two mugs of hot coffee and brought them to their designated table. I then grabbed a third and opened my laptop. "What did you mean, we didn't solve the case?" I asked, and then it hit me, "Oh…" We still hadn't caught the culprit.

"Lost your eyepatch," Sherlock explained, taking a sip.

"What?" I asked.

"I assume you believe one of us stole it?"

"I don't know," I frowned, "Did you?"

"John?"

"I didn't do it," John said, sitting down next to Sherlock.

I frowned, "And I suppose you didn't do it either, then?"

"Why would I want your filthy eyepatch?"

I stuck my tongue out at him, "I checked my entire room, nothing. I know I was wearing it when I went to sleep last night."

"Is it under your covers?"

" _I_ shouldn't have been under the covers! I fell asleep on top of them! Were either of you in my room?!"

"Nope," Sherlock sighed, "Back to the problem at hand."

"No, I checked."

"So you think someone took it," John interjected.

"It's the only logical explanation," I exclaimed, "But why would anyone steal my eyepatch. Wait…" I paused. A ring tone was going off somewhere in my room, "Is that yours?"

"It's yours," Sherlock told me, leaning forward and waiting. I huffed and went into my room. My work phone was ringing. The memories of last night came flooding back to me, and I stared at it like someone may stare at a bomb. I shook myself and went to pick it up again.

 **Good morning,** ** _Ari._**

"Sherlock!" I yelled, "It's them again!"

I heard footsteps and a second later Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, holding his hand out for my phone. I sighed and passed it over. "How the _hell_ does he know that name? Skye I get; Skye is my name now. But _Ari_? They'd have to find my birth certificate to find that name."

Sherlock sat down on my bed, ignoring me completely. He began typing out a response. I sat down next to him to see what he was doing.

 **Wrong number.**

We waited to see what would happen. One minute…two minutes…three-

 **Oh, hello Sherlock. Fancy meeting you here.**

"What the fuck!" I yelled, staring from the phone to Sherlock and back, "How-?"

But Sherlock was already off, rifling through my bookcase. "You have a security system?!"

"No!" I protested, "I just lock the doors when I go out! No one even knows where I live besides my best friends, Mrs. Devyn, and you two!"

"Well someone's watching us!" He started throwing books off of the shelf, and then ran to do the same to my closet. My clothes went everywhere and I yelled so loudly John came to see what was going on.

"Sherlock!" I hollered, "What the _FUCK_ are you _doing_!?"

He held his hand up triumphantly and I saw a tiny glinting _something_ between his thumb and forefinger. "Camera," he grinned, turning it around to face him. But I didn't care. I was too shell-shocked at the state my room was in.

"Son of a-

The situation resolved itself with me chasing Sherlock back to 221b, John in tow.

* * *

 **So here's the third chapter. Sorry, if Jim isn't in it so much. As I said, it starts off slow. I wanted it to be more realistic, and if _I_ was being romanticized by a "gay" psychopath, I definitely wouldn't let him win so quickly. More fun that way. I don't own Sherlock, John, Jim, or any other original Sherlock character. I almost wish I did, but then it would be strange to write fanfiction on 'em. **


	4. Chapter 4 - Meeting and Mysteries

**I'm baaaaaaaaaaack! Here's another update, and please,** ** _please_** **, tell me what you want to happen. Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrated, and I own no Sherlock characters (unfortunately).**

* * *

Chapter 4

Meetings and Mysteries

 **(1** **st** **POV)**

I spent fifteen minutes texting the stalker. It started like this:

 **How the fuck did you get a camera in here? - AC**

 **So you finally decided to respond…**

 **Answer the question! - AC**

 **I read your books. Loved them.**

 **So you're a fan? Is that why you're doing this? - AC**

 **Nope.**

 **Then why? - AC**

 **Not telling.**

 **How did you get a camera in here? - AC**

 **Not telling.**

 **Creep. - AC**

 **How dare you?!**

 **Fine. Who are you, then? - AC**

 **Not telling.**

 **Have I met you? - AC**

 **Yes. You liked me, too.**

 **Sorry, not ringing any bells. - AC**

 **Ooh, that hurts.**

At that point I decided not to text this person. If they didn't get what they wanted, they would probably go away. I kept receiving messages, however, until I shut my phone off.

 **Silent treatment?**

 **I'm so** ** _bored._**

Etcetera.

I shut my phone off and stuffed it into my pocket. If this guy was getting into my house somehow, I really had to make sure I locked my door. I got up and grabbed my other phone, deciding to go see what Sherlock was up to after breakfast. It was only six in the morning, so Speedy's wouldn't open for another half an hour. I pouted and went to check my freezer, pulling out a pack of frozen apple turnovers. I stuck one in the oven for fifteen minutes and read while I waited.

The timer pinged and I grabbed the oven mitt and pulled out my piping hot breakfast, giving it five minutes to cool off. Five turned into ten turned into fifteen, and soon I had wasted a whole hour reading Markus Zusak's "The Book Thief". I looked up when I finished my coffee and swore.

It was 7:13, about an hour since taking my turnover out, so I stuffed a bite into my mouth and paused a second to savor the sweet apple syrup. I really loved apple flavored baked goods. Apple pie, apple turnover, apples in general. Bud I didn't like apple crisp. Never had, never will.

I was about to put the book down, when there came a banging on my door. I spun on my heel and stared into the face of Sherlock once more. "Um…Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Deducing. Why on earth would someone want to follow you? What's so special about you? You're famous, but not incredibly famous. Mildly attractive, but more likely it's because you're very rich."

"Excuse me? Mildly attractive _?_ Are you kidding me?"

"I suppose that could be a motivator as well, but to someone who managed to get ahold of your birth certificate and bugged your flat would be looking for more than a one sided relationship."

" _Mildly attractive?_ Is that the best you could think of?"

"But then the first thing he said was 'Welcome to the Game', so we are dealing with the same man who murdered Carl Powers. Your secret admirer is our bomber."

"Great, but _mildly attractive!"_

"Did you not hear me?"

"Bomber stalker, cool, but _mildly attractive_?!"

Sherlock's phone went off, and for one second I was afraid that it was the same bomber who'd blew up the flat next to mine. I supposed that was a bit creepy, but it wasn't the biggest problem at hand. A man had just called me "mildly attractive". I supposed that was the best I'd ever get from him, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

"So you're not worried?" he asked, looking down at his mobile.

"I don't know who this is, so why bother fussing about getting stalked? I get stalked all the time. I'm _famous_ , for god sakes. Not an actress or a singer, but I'm a young, rich woman. I get all sorts of weird people sending me letters. Wedding proposals, one or two per year from random people. Believe me, this is more fun than worrying."

"Well," he sighed, grabbing my wrist, "Come on then." I grinned happily as I was pulled haphazardly down the stairs and out past the construction site where they were rebuilding the exploded flat.

Instead of heading upstairs, we clambered awkwardly inside the cab John was holding for us. "Scotland Yard," Sherlock ordered, and off they went.

"Does John know?" I asked.

"You tell him," Sherlock shrugged.

"Tell me what?" John asked, glaring between me and Sherlock.

"The guy who was texting me turns out to be the guy who's doing all of this. The _game._ "

"The murderer?"

"Yep," I giggled, popping the 'p'. John looked a teensy bit concerned at my tolerance, but to be honest, I was practically over the moon about being stalked by a murderer. It was just like those bits in my books, when the main villain got bored and watched the main character while she was doing whatever daily life. All of the tense visits were punctuated by flirtatious remarks and wishes for each other to die in eternal agony.

Those were the parts I loved writing most, because they were both sexy, and entertaining. People loved them, I could tell why. Whenever I read them I wanted to write another, but I couldn't make it seem as though the villain was going soft. He still had to be just as murderous and evil as he always was.

"So you are being stalked and flirted with by the _murderer?_ "

"Yeah."

"And you're _okay_ with that?!"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you _crazy?!"_

"Ugh…we've been over this!"

* * *

We arrived at Scotland Yard and hopped out of the cab, stretching my arms and back and yawning. I wondered why Sherlock was suddenly being nice…unless…

"What are you planning?" I probed him.

"Me?" Sherlock asked, with a look of sardonic innocence. I didn't buy it for a second, but I didn't press. No point in that, he would see straight through all of my pressing. But…him suddenly inviting me along was very suspicious. _Very_ suspicious.

We went up to Lestrade's office again, where he was sitting at the desk. John say down and Sherlock went to stand by the window, and I just leaned against the doorway. Lestrade glared at me as though to say, ' _Why is_ she _here?_ ' I rolled my eyes. This guy.

"She lives in Cornwall," he started explaining, still watching me as though I wasn't supposed to be there or something, "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone _you._ She had to read out from this pager." He placed the pager of the desk and I stepped forward to take a look.

"And if she deviated by one word…" Sherlock began.

"Boom," I finished, trying not to grin.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John added.

"Oh, elegant," Sherlock said softly.

John raised his head, "'Elegant'?" I nodded, seeing Sherlock's point. A very interesting and (dare I say it) fun. Cool way of doing things. I would've been impressed if I hadn't been annoyed that he was texting me.

"But what was the point? Why would anyone _do_ this?" Lestrade asked, and then lower, "And why is _she_ here?"

"I have a _name,_ you know," I pouted.

"Ari's here because she's already involved. Leave her alone and she may end up being attacked or taken. I could never forgive myself if I had to go and save her rather than do something important and productive," Sherlock explained, "The bomber's bored."

"Funny how you can sound compassionate and just end up insulting my right to live," I frowned.

"Ari? Taken? _Involved?_ "

"Name. Kidnapped. Stalker."

"Kidnapped?!" John and I exclaimed in unison. That was new.

"Stalker?" Lestrade ignored us, "Who?"

"The _bomber_."

"So…"

"She's staying with us until this whole thing is over."

"What!?" John and I asked, again in unison.

"Since when!" I yelled. However long this took, spending it with Sherlock would be too long. Then something else struck me; spending all of my time with the detective would mean a perfect look into the life of said detective.

He was about to respond, when the pink phone went off. 'You have ONE new message', said the little voice alert, and then four beeps proceeded. I waited for something else, but nothing. "Was that it?"

"Four pips," John confirmed, and I waited.

A second later, Sherlock showed us a picture, "First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second."

It was a car, empty, with the license plate and the driver's door was open. I gave a good long look at it, trying to deduce something, but I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. My mind was still reeling, though not as bad as it had been when he mentioned 'kidnapping'.

"It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock inquired. No one answered, there was no point in attempting to contradict him or otherwise.

"I'll see if it's been reported," Lestrade sighed, picking up the phone on his desk. I was about to go and sit down when I heard someone behind me clear their throat.

I turned around and smiled at Sally, but she didn't look so happy to see me anymore. I sighed, ever since I'd started hanging around with Sherlock, people hadn't seemed to like me very much. Molly, and now Sally. Next Jim would hate me (which I wouldn't mind, to be honest).

"Freak, it's for you!" She handed him a phone. Sherlock took it and walked out of the office. John got up and followed, so I took his seat, waiting. Lestrade looked up and I raised my eyebrows, waiting. There was an awkward silence, and then Lestrade spoke a little bit and shut his phone.

Sherlock was still outside, so we waited some more. More awkward silence. "So…your name's…Ari?" he asked. I nodded. "Nice name."

"Thanks."

"And…um…why-

"Equinox seemed appropriate, if that's what you're asking."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Oh look, he's done," Lestrade said, breaking a third silence, standing up and walking out of his office, "We've found it!" Sherlock turned around to follow Lestrade, then turned back and grabbed my arm.

"OI!" I yelled, but he just dragged me along into a cab.

* * *

"I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself!" I slapped Sherlock's arm rather hard. We were standing near a river next to the car. I was scolding Sherlock for dragging me everywhere. Really, I was going to follow anyway. All this handholding was getting awkward.

"Against a gun?"

"No, of course not, but-

"Then you do not leave our sight unless you want to find yourself in that predicament. Understood?"

"No…"

"Just go with it," John hissed in my ear and I huffed.

"Fine. I'll do it. But you have to read my books."

Sherlock smirked and yawned, turning to Lestrade, who was looking over some notes. "The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind; city boy. Paid in cash," Lestrade began, "Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived." I grinned, forgetting for the time being that I was being babysat and enjoying the thrill of mystery.

Sherlock went to take a closer look at the front Donavon came up to John and me. "You're still hanging 'round him."

I couldn't tell if it was directed at John or me, so I said nothing. John seemed uncomfortable, "Yeah…well…"

"Opposites attract, I suppose." I nearly laughed at her joke, but I didn't really feel like laughing with Donavon right now, rather laughing _at_ her. Ever since I'd started seeing more of Sherlock, everyone had become meaner.

"No, we're not-

"You should get yourself a hobby – stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer." She went away finally, to stand near Lestrade.

"Can we get her for anything?" I asked John.

"Um…she's having an affair with Anderson, or she was, at least, a little while ago. Probably not anymore, ever since Sherlock figured it out."

"Anything else?"

"Not that I- hold on, are you planning blackmail?!"

"No, just torment, though, now that you mention it…"

"She's a sergeant, blackmail wouldn't be advised."

I sulked, "You're no fun."

"Ari! Come on!" Sherlock yelled from the car.

"What!?"

"Fine, stay with Lestrade!"

I felt a buzzing in my pocket and jumped slightly. It was my friend phone this time so I checked it. Blaze was texting me this time.

 **Hey, I got the day off! Where _are_ you!? - BL**

I'd forgotten about the lunch date. Was it that time already? Wow…

 **Sorry! Forgot! I don't know if I'll be able to come. Sherlock won't let me out of his sight, apparently. – AC**

 **"Won't let you out of his sight". Well that's rather suggestive now isn't it…? – BL**

 **I hate you! - AC**

 **No you don't – BL**

 **U know what, I'll be there in a bit – AC**

 **What about your babysitter boyfriend? – BL**

"Sherlock!" I yelled, "I'm going to Speedy's!"

"No!" he hollered back.

"But I've got a date!"

"Reschedule!"

"Can't you just send someone?"

"No!"

"Why not?" I grimaced, "And besides, there are three others! If I can't protect myself, Blaze will! El and Gem're there too!"

"So?" he asked, walking back from some crying lady, "Three women? Against a bomb?"

"I'll be in public! At Speedy's! Next to your flat! Why don't _you_ come along, anyway?"

"A man will be blown to pieces if I don't solve this case within seven and a half hours."

"Yeah, and I've got a lunch date. Trot off."

"No!"

I did puppy dog eye. They didn't work, but I hadn't really expected them to, so I sighed and trudged off. "Where are you going!?" Sherlock yelled at me, but John grabbed his arm.

"Let her go."

"Thanks John!" I called back, skipping off to hail a cab.

* * *

"Skye! _There_ you are!" called Gem from across the street, outside my flat, shivering in the autumn air. I had just gotten out of my cab and payed the driver. Evidently Blaze and El were inside the café already. I was down the street, but Gem was always a good yeller.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," I apologized, "I have so much to tell you. My god, it's been crazy."

"Hey, who's that?" Gem was staring behind me, her blue eyes dazzling, "He's rather pretty, isn't he."

"What?"

"Hello Nox," called someone behind me, and I swore.

"This could get ugly," I hissed to Gem, "You should go order lunch."

"Not a chance," she grinned, and I turned around to face Jim. Honestly, I was a little surprised at what I saw. He was dressed in casual clothes, but he still looked very not gay. His face was no longer clean shaven, which made him look slightly more attractive.

"Who's this?" he asked, walking up to me and indicating Gem.

"A _friend_. Speaking of which, I told you before, only my _friends_ call me Nox. Best friends call me my real name. You don't qualify for either."

"There's always _boyfriend_ ," he smirked, "You left that one out."

"You're _definitely_ not my boyfriend."

"Though, just to clarify, she _is_ single," Gen said from behind me, and I shot her a death glare.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I asked her pointedly.

"Oh, of course," she grinned wickedly, "I'll leave you two _alone_."

After she was gone I stuffed my hands in my pockets and gave Jim my full attention. "Why are you here? Date?"

"Are you asking me out?"

"I'm asking you to get out of here."

He gestured to his clothes, "Not even a little impressed?"

"I'm being babysat by Sherlock Holmes, and he doesn't impress me, so no."

"Oh really. Where is he then?"

"On a case. You're Irish again."

"Yep. Like it?"

"No. How's Molly?"

"Seems to think I'm _gay_. Why on earth would she think that?"

I rolled my eyes, "Like you care."

"What's your real name?"

"Classified."

"Oh," he sighed, taking another step, "Don't be like that. And the eye?"

"Fell," I lied. I definitely did _not_ want Jim knowing I'd lost my eyepatch.

"I rather like it, actually."

"Figures."

"So, you're single." His eyes lit up, and his face contorted into a playful grin.

"You dodged my question. Why are you here?"

"It's perfectly in my right to come around here, isn't it? Why should I answer to you?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"What's in it for me?"

"I don't want to know _that_ badly," I rolled my eyes, "I'm just curious."

"Visiting a friend. You?"

"I live here!"

"Good to know."

"Creep."

" _Sexy_ creep," he corrected me, and I felt a twinge of something, like some part of my brain was throwing up or something, except it felt good. I shuddered. Did my subconscious just _agree_ with him?! Fuck no! I did not think that Jim was sexy! Not even good looking! Okay, maybe good looking, but I still hated him! Definitely hated him!

"Bye," I told him quickly, turning around to leave.

"What? No goodbye kiss?"

I laughed dryly, "You wish. Go flirt with someone else."

"Maybe I will." Another twinge. Jealousy? FUCK NO!

I HAD A CRUSH ON JIM!

I could barely comprehend this. Jim. Jim from I.T. Jim the creep. Jim the maybe gay but not really. Jim. I felt jealous that he might go flirt with someone else, that I wasn't the only one. _Shit!_ I risked a glance when I got to the café door. He was still standing there, sneering. I flipped him off and walked inside, looking for my friends.

I didn't need to, since Blaze stuck out by a mile. Or her hair did. I had expected that Gem would look more psychedelic, but she had reverted to her normal hair color, pitch black, with cerulean ends of varying lengths, like daggers of ice. "Who was that?" she asked when I sat down.

"An enemy."

"A hot enemy."

"Have you no shame?" I groaned, while El and Blaze looked confused.

"Who're we talking about?" El asked hopefully, "Has our job been done for us?"

"Not yet, it would seem," Blaze shrugged, "Going by the term 'enemy'."

"His name's Jim. He works at Bart's and he's both already with someone and 'gay', apparently."

"Didn't seem that way when he spoke to you," Gem smirked. I was facing her and El, and Blaze was by my side.

"Guys, that's not even the biggest thing going on!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, Skye, you've got more than one?" Blaze asked.

"No!" I curled my lips, "I mean I'm being stalked now. And in the custody of a detective."

"You've been arrested?" El gasped.

"No! It's an expression!" Blaze cut in, "I'm more interested in the stalking. Who's doing it this time?"

"I think we should concentrate in this Jim character. He's dreamy."

"Guys," I held my hands up, we came here for lunch. Order first, talk later. 'Kay?"

"Fine," came three responses, of varying excitement and length.

We got our food and I insisted that we begin by telling the whole story. I explained the bomb, the first case with Carl Powers, how I tied in, and finished with Sherlock insisting that I stay with him.

"He's a bit clingy sounding," was all El said. She completely ignored everything else, about the bomber and the stalker. Straight to the point, my friends.

"How about you, then?" I asked, turning to Blaze, "What're _you_ so happy about?"

"New shooting range," she grinned, "Amazing place, real fun, too."

"Damn, I thought you'd be more interesting than that."

"Language please," Blaze laughed, "There are children present." I nodded. El and Gem hadn't even noticed, they were too busy gossiping. I puffed out my cheeks, waiting. Phrases jumped out at me, like "Team J vs Team S" and "ship names". I had dealt with ship names before. Never again. I wished I hadn't told them about how I had to sleep over in his flat now. They were debating who I would spend the rest of my life with. "We're too old for this," I puffed, and Blaze nodded.

"Yeah, you're right," Gem shrugged, and then her face lit up, "Wanna watch The Avengers instead?!"

"Yay!" So we all ate and paid and traipsed out of Speedy's and across the street to my flat, arguing about who was better; Thor or Loki. Again, we were mature adults.

We got into the movie for about half an hour, and then someone pounded on my door. I sighed and told the girls to stay there while I sorted it out. They, of course, hopped up immediately and came to have a look at whomever was banging at my door. "Don't break my door down!" I yelled, opening it to reveal Sherlock standing so close I nearly ran into him.

"You said you'd stay at Speedy's."

"Yeah, well, I forgot. Ran into someone."

"Yes, I know," he began, and I knew I was in for it, "Obviously a male. You're conflicted, so you're attracted to him physically, but mentally you still like to believe you're uninterested. You didn't want your friends to know because you knew they'd never let it go. You're still annoyed with me for keeping you in my sight; it's a precaution. This bomber is really rather taken with you, it would seem, and I almost feel sorry for that poor man whom you like. Who was he, anyway?"

"Jim."

"Who?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I hissed. I imagine my face was a very deep shade of scarlet. Sherlock had done to me exactly what he did to everyone else. It wasn't so funny when I was on the receiving end. They were giggling and deciding which 'Team' they were on. As far as I heard (before I was dragged off again) Blaze and Gem were rooting for Jim, while El still hoped I'd end up with Sherlock. I was so glad they hadn't met Inspector Lestrade. They'd have a field day; three bachelors; three choices. I imagine they'd write up a play like they did last time this type of thing happened.

And then, of course, I was pulled off.

"You can let go of me, Sherlock!" I called as he hailed a cab and made sure I got in first.

"You were thinking about running."

"Yes, because this is technically an abduction."

"Hmm?"

"Taking me out of my house," I recounted, "Against my will. Though, the key witnesses seem currently indisposed to do anything but try to get me a boyfriend. Shit."

* * *

 **I'm baaaaaaaaaaack! Here's another update, and please,** ** _please_** **, tell me what you want to happen. Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrated, and I own no Sherlock characters (unfortunately).**


	5. Chapter 5 - Mystery Man

**I don't really have any notes for the chapter. Thanks to Brookie Twiling and Guest for the feedback and ideas, as well as anyone who has reviewed so far. I don't own any Sherlock characters, nor do I own their story lines. Thanks again. XD**

* * *

Chapter 5

Mystery Man

 **(1** **st** **POV)**

"We have six hours left," Sherlock explained, "Before a man dies."

"Uh-huh. Why am I staying with you again?"

"You are very likely to be used as a bomb victim. This man knows how to get into your flat, I don't want to have to waste my time saving you, when it would be much better spent trying to find the bomber. Don't you see? Strategy!"

"At first I thought you actually cared," I pouted.

"How silly of you."

"I know."

We were on our way to some car company. Something Roman, I thought, a god. "What was the name again?"

"Janus Cars."

"The two faced god, right?"

"Yes…"

There was a long silence interrupted only when we arrived at the car dealership. I hopped out of the cab and walked over to John, who was standing by the entrance, waiting.

"So…Jim?" Sherlock began, trying to defuse the tension. I sighed and turned to him.

"He's dating Molly."

"Not for long."

"I still think I'll skip out."

"You _do_ like him, though, and he may be your best bet."

"Doubtful."

"Yeah, you're right."

"Say that again," I ordered, but he just shook his head and walked away. I followed at a distance, into the large white building, and back to an office.

"We need to speak with you about one of your clients, Mr.…" John began.

"Ewart," Mr. Ewart explained, "Can't see how I can help you gentlemen."

"Mr. Monkford hired a car from you yesterday," I pressed, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow. Yes, I can do detective work, suck it!

"Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!" the man obliged instantly.

Sherlock walked around the desk to stand next to Ewart, looking over him. "Is that one?" he asked, pointing to the poster of some very nice cars a little way off above Ewart's head. He looked immediately, and I saw Sherlock look down his shirt for some reason.

"No, they're all Jags. Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?" Ewart said, sounding rather disappointed. Personally, I didn't think Sherlock new what a Mazda was, but that was just me. I didn't own a car either, so much easier to just go by cab.

"But…er…surely _you_ can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock asked, standing straighter and Ewart looked around and smiled at me.

"Yeah, it's a fair point. But you know how it is: it's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the licorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?" I shrugged; it seemed legit. Sherlock didn't seem to think so. He walked over to the other side of the desk, near me.

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asked with a fleeting look towards Sherlock.

"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod."

Sherlock stopped on the other side, "Nice holiday, Mr. Ewart?"

"Oh," he exclaimed, gesturing to his tanned face, "The-the… No, it's…er…sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though – bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock interrupted abruptly, and I startled.

"I didn't know you smoked," I whispered to him, and he shot me a look of annoyance.

"What?" Ewart asked.

"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change," Sherlock explained, "I'm _gasping_."

"Um, well…" Ewart checked took out his wallet and looked through it, "No, sorry."

"Oh," Sherlock sighed, turning to leave. I stared at him, the guy hadn't even given us anything. I looked over at John, but he was already standing up to go. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewart."

I frowned and followed them out, wondering how Sherlock thought they had what they needed. Still, he typically knew what he was doing, and there was no point in arguing. Idiotic prat.

"Can I go home yet?"

"No."

"Ugh. Please?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Bomber. Speaking of which, has he texted you recently?"

I opened my phone and checked, "Nope."

"He's busy, then. Hungry?"

"I ate before you dragged me away from my friends. They're probably still at my flat, going through my cupboards and ribboning my bedroom. Last time I didn't get the glitter out for _months_!"

John sighed, "Sherlock, what did you do…?"

"I took her into protective custody."

"He kidnapped me!"

Sherlock just kept walking, so I took a different approach. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Because Mr. Ewart's a liar."

Dramatic son of a bitch.

* * *

I yawned, sitting on the counter in the lab again, watching Sherlock do various tests on the blood from the car, like I had been waiting for the two and a half hours previous. It was quite boring just watching him sit there and toy with the microscope. I'd given up asking him to let me go home, and whenever I got up he would snap something like "nope", or "stay…" causing me to glare at him and return to my seat. Eventually I resorted to texting my friends. They'd finished the movie and El had decided to watch another one with Gem, while Blaze edited my work.

My texting was interrupted when Sherlock's pink phone rang. I watched him pick it up from the table where he'd left it and check the id, before answering it. I quickly texted bye to Blaze and closed my phone, waiting.

"Hello?"

I put my phone away and tried to listen in, getting up and walking over to stand beside him. I could just barely here the voice of a young man, and I could barely understand what he was saying. Definitely crying.

"Why would you give me a clue?" Sherlock asked all of the sudden, making me jump.

More blubbering on the other end, then, "Then talk to me in your own voice," Sherlock muttered softly. A second later the other end hung up and Sherlock lowered the phone. I waited for a second, following his gaze to the fizzing cocktail of what appeared to be some blood from the car seat. When I looked back up at him, he was smiling.

"Solved it?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Are you going to bother explaining it?"

"Not to you."

"Fine," I pouted, turning around.

"Come on!" he called from the door and I swore. Why wasn't _I_ blessed with long legs? I jogged to catch up. Now that it was interesting I had no intention of leaving. Sure it sucked that I was missing out on my friends, but this was sure to be educational.

We left the building, but not before I caught a glimpse of Molly. She was glaring daggers at me. Seriously, if looks could kill, then I'd be lying in a pool of my own blood right about then. Jesus, she must have _really_ hated me because of Sherlock.

I stood outside while Sherlock hailed a cab. Another thing he had that I didn't; the ability to actually successfully hail a cab. It was as though whenever he needed one, there it was. _How_?

He got in and I slipped in next to him, leaning my head against the cold window and watching people move about. Any one of them could be the murderer we were looking for. Sherlock told the cabbie where we were going and I watching the tall buildings pass through my line of vision. It was humbling to live in such a city as this, where everything was either big and famous or broken down and unnoticed. The in between things were just there, a part of daily life.

Sherlock and I didn't speak for the entire ride and I didn't honestly mind. It gave me time to plan my next chapter. My character was currently in a tight predicament, because her enemy and her friend were currently at odds. Being the only person who the villain refused to kill, she was the one stuck looking after him. They were handcuffed together (kinky, I know), and she had to go about daily life with a murderous, possessive innuendo. I didn't want it to seem too much like I was trying to force them together, but I _did_ want to get more into the villain's mind when he was around her. I had been writing him to act high and mighty when he was near her, but now that he was stuck, we would have to see what happened.

The cab stopped and Sherlock and I got out. He immediately set off at a brisk walk, so I had to jog to catch up. When I entered the white tent, Sherlock was already halfway through explaining the case to Lestrade and John. He must have come in and spoken at lightning speed to be able to pull that off. I frowned and checked my phones. The work one had been off all day, and I was glad of that, and my friends were probably too busy to text. I sighed and put them back into their designated pockets.

I waited off to the side, feeling suddenly dejected. I had been so excited to see him deduce something, but he wasn't letting me get what I needed. I pouted at him but he didn't notice, he was too busy ignoring me. John nodded in my direction and I looked away. I didn't want Sherlock knowing that he was affecting me. He probably already knew, I realized, there wasn't any hiding from him. I turned around, and looked down the hallway, when I heard footsteps. I sighed and looked sideways, pivoting only slightly. Time to leave.

As I followed Sherlock down the hall and out of the tent, John nudged me. "Sorry about him. He doesn't mean i-

"I am on _fire_!" Sherlock interrupted, thrusting one fist into the air.

"No, it's okay," I grinned, "I'm used to it by now." John looked a little taken aback, but with my smile firmly in place, I was feeling much better. All I had to do was think of the ever looming prospects of forcing Sherlock to read my books.

I was hustled into a cab and taken off to 221B, where Sherlock dragged me upstairs. The windows were still boarded up, but I could see my flat through the cracks. Wow, I thought to myself, how my flat had made it out without a scratch. The destruction was literally a door away, and the neighbor, Mr. Morton, was probably in trouble. Poor guy, his entire building was destroyed. But mine was perfectly fine. Even the staircase had been spared. Funny how life works out, isn't it?

Sherlock opened his own laptop, which was already open to the science of deduction, and typed into the message bar, **Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.**

So _that_ was the conclusion he'd come to.

No sooner had he posted it than the pink phone began to vibrate. He picked it up and answered it. Before he could say anything, the man on the other end burst something. I could hear the words "help me" repeated a couple times, and Sherlock asked him, "Where are you?"

Sherlock relayed the information he was given into his own phone and sent it to Lestrade. He then smiled up at John, who was next to me. I frowned and looked outside. I was getting tired, and it was already dark out.

"Well, where do I sleep?" I asked. I had decided to accept that Sherlock wouldn't be letting me go home until the entire case was finished. Sherlock gestured to the couch and I sighed, "Fine."

I lay down on the couch and decided that I might as well check my work phone to see what the bomber had left me. I nearly fell off of the couch when I heard the tone. " **You have (53) new messages.** "

I opened it quickly and scrolled through the messages, skimming them for anything important. They were mainly just:

 **Ugh…RESPOND!**

 **Respond.**

 **Please respond…**

 **You're boring.**

And such. I sighed, reaching the bottom and decided to reply.

 **How much time do you have? – AC**

 **She lives!**

 **Nvm – AC**

 **Aw, come on. Maybe I'll pay you a visit instead…**

 **No one's stopping you! – AC**

 **Yeah, I think I will. Not just yet, though…**

 **I look forward to it. – AC**

 **As do I.**

Who did he remind me of? Someone, but I couldn't think of who. This, at least, was interesting. Getting to meet this creep would be dangerous, but probably cool, too. If only I knew when. I put my phone away and stretched out on the couch. Sherlock and John were conversing in the other room, and somehow I didn't feel like showing them right now.

I yawned and placed both my phones on the coffee table, before getting as comfortable as I could (I always slept on my side, so it wasn't too hard) and drifting off. That night I dreamt of quite a few things, but the only one I remembered was one towards the end.

It started the same as the one the previous night. Demons danced through my mind's eye and I propped myself up to see better. There were the playful, impish creatures, and then there were the truly creepy apparitions. But one particular specimen caught my eye. Across the room there sat the darkest demon upon a throne of black mist. It was dressed in fire, with eyes like pools of void. It stared straight at me, a truly evil smile playing across its lips, and I felt that tingly feeling again, just like the one from last night.

The thing got up, and I watched it slowly walk towards me. The closer it got the more human it looked, but before it could even get halfway to me, I felt myself waking up. The last thing I did before leaving this place, was wave and stick out my tongue like any mature adult. The creature just raised one eyebrow and crossed his arms, as though vowing to await my return.

I opened my eyes to find Sherlock shaking me awake. "I'm up, I'm up!" I half groaned, sitting up groggily and looking around. For a second I couldn't remember why I was here, but it all came flooding back to me not too long after and I sighed. Great, I was still here.

Sherlock hoisted me up and started pulling me towards the door. "John's hungry. Come on!" I frowned and decided that there was no point in arguing, however appealing it may be. I was starving, anyway, since I hadn't eaten since the previous afternoon and I was running low on energy. Without another word Sherlock let go of my wrist and walked down the stairs to meet John, who was on the curb with a ready hailed cab.

I got in and leaned against the window, not in a great mood from being dragged around and deprived of food. John did try to strike up a conversation, but I casually flipped him off and from then on he left me alone until we arrived. I had been told that I had borderline creepy mood swings, which I was aware of. Sometimes I'd be perfectly fine one minute, and then suddenly my mind would take a turn and I'd start pondering something sad or aggravating, hence the change. Though, right now, my annoyance was mainly due to hunger.

When we arrived I got out with the others and walked into the restaurant. John and Sherlock sat down at a table opposite each other and I followed suit, plopping down next to John and looking around.

A waitress came over and John ordered. I did as well, just asking for an egg and toast. Normally I would've just eaten at home, but I didn't have a choice. I started finger combing my hair and found that it wasn't so hard since I hadn't moved around very much in my sleep. My right eye was beginning to feel itchy and irritated, and I decided on something.

Fuck it, who cared if people saw my eye. They were bound to eventually, and I couldn't go on like this.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and Sherlock smirked as though he knew exactly what I was doing. He probably did, actually. I slipped inside and checked to make sure no one was inside. When no one was, I relaxed and slipped the eyepatch off.

I kept my eye closed an examined the lid. Though it felt sore, it was actually quite fine. I prodded it a bit, and blinked automatically. Alright, my eye was fine. I opened it and gazed into my pearl white iris, grinning at the eerie, animalistic beauty. I felt like a goddess or an angel. Maybe this winter I'd stick with the color scheme. White and gold and such were very nice winter colors. I was getting off topic, I realized, probably to stall. Honestly, the only reason I was really self-conscious about my eye was because as a kid that had been the main mockery point. Not the hair, not the gold, not even the freakish psychotic behaviors. Nope, attention was always drawn back to my "zombie eye" as people had called it. Now was different, though. I was more confident, and if not that, than better at punching. That, at least, I could rely on.

I slipped out of the bathroom, but not before throwing my white eyepatch in the trash. No going back, now. I was probably going to regret this, but who gives a shit? I fail all the time!

"Open it!" Sherlock said immediately as I reached the table. Damn, I had automatically shut my eye. I obliged immediately, blinking dazedly at the bright light, before staring him full in the face. He didn't seem even remotely surprised. "Told you," was all he said. I was about to argue when my food arrived and I was cut short. The waitress looked at my eye curiously but didn't press. I remembered the contact lenses and what crazy things people did. God, I was such an idiot. I suddenly felt so embarrassed that I'd been worried. I wolfed down my breakfast to keep myself from clenching up in frustration like I normally did when I wished that I could go back in time and stop myself from being such a dumbass.

John had barely noticed my eye; he was too busy devouring his own food. I sighed, being already done, and looked outside. It looked really nice out, now, and I watched as the traffic escalated and tourists could be seen travelling from one bus to the other, or simply standing around, staring at the sites. "May I go outside?" I asked quickly. Sherlock looked up and nodded indifferently. I grinned and skipped outside, looking around as if for the first time with an unobstructed view. Everything was brighter, clearer, like when you go outside in autumn after living in your basement for five years. I felt like one of the tourists, actually.

I sat down on a bench and looked back inside. Sherlock and John seemed busy, so I leaned back against the building and rested. I definitely had _not_ gotten enough sleep. I began to think about my dream. It felt so real, and yet I knew for sure that it was just a dream. Still, the demon, whatever it was, had seemed sort of humanoid. I swore it seemed just like a person I knew, but I couldn't determine who it was exactly. I was a man, almost my height, maybe a little taller. It wasn't John, because John was shorter than me by about one inch. Sherlock was too tall to fit the profile, so who could it be?

* * *

 **(Mystery POV (But you probably know who it is, anyway))**

He watched her sitting on a bench, thinking about something or other. Her beautiful gold and white hair cascaded down her back. She was dressed the same as yesterday, but he already knew why. Silly Sherlock was trying to keep her safe. _Well_ , he thought, _that will only work for so long_.

He examined her thin figure and, especially, her new eye. He'd only ever seen her white eye once, in her sleep. Seeing it with her sort-of consent was much better than sneaking into her room at night and peeling her eyelid back to see why she wore an eye patch.

He'd chosen to accidentally keep the patch in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. Padded, too. Probably expensive. And good taste. He liked her already. He checked his phone and sighed. She hadn't texted him since. Damn.

Strange, though. He couldn't wait to meet her as himself. She was…interesting, he supposed. He had Sherlock as a distraction, but Sherlock wasn't always around. So she would serve as his back up distraction, he decided. Maybe he'd make a little game out of it, see how long it would take her to cave and whatnot. She wasn't the reason he was there, however. It was time that Sherlock received his next little gift.

* * *

 **(1** **st** **POV (Ari))**

Sherlock and John came outside about fifteen minutes later, looking grim. I stood up, "Another call?"

Sherlock said nothing, but John nodded. "It's an old woman. He's got an old woman strapped to a bomb. And she's _blind_!"

Even _I_ knew that only a very twisted person would do that. I chose not to make any joking comments in this moment, but instead stretched, "So we're off again?"

"Off to Bart's morgue," Sherlock called, gesturing to a cab he'd magically hailed, "Get in!"

I slipped into the car and this time sat across from the two of them. The ride passed in silence, and it was then that I realized something. I'd only known these two for four days! In four days they'd managed to turn my life upside down. I'd gone places I'd probably have gone; done things I'd probably never have done without their influence. Now I was off to a morgue to examine some dead body. At least, I assumed it was a dead body. You never knew with these two…

We arrived and I hopped out, following Sherlock and John into Bart's hospital and down to the morgue. When I entered I saw Blaze, standing in the lobby and pulling on a coat. I grinned and waved, and Sherlock stopped to watch.

"Skye!" Blaze called, and I frowned. Ever since my eyepatch had come off, I was feeling more and more like my old self. My old name might be nice. Besides, a few people already knew it, anyway. What could go wrong?

"It's Ari again," I explained, "I decided to change back."

"Why?" she asked, walking over and examining my white eye, "And make it quick, 'cos I've gotta get to work."

"I don't know," I shrugged, "Those two found out my name, and I got tired of hiding who I am. Not a lot of people do that, right?"

"Yeah," Blaze laughed, "But you've always been an overdramatic prick."

"Gee, I'm blushing," I said flatly, raising my eyebrows, "We'll talk about this later. I've gotta get to the morgue."

With that Blaze and I parted ways and I jogged to catch up to John and Sherlock, who had gotten bored and started leaving without me. Though, what'd I expect, right?

When I got down the stairs Sherlock was opening the door. "Molly!" he yelled, and the petite woman rushed over to help. Her face fell slightly when she saw me and John, and I tried to hide a smirk.

"Um…what do you ne-?

"Connie Prince."

"On it," she said, rushing off to find the body. While she was doing that, Sherlock texted someone, probably Lestrade. I looked around, trying to determine which things did what. I'd done a little research on this stuff, because my character spent a little time in the morgue, but most of the time I winged it. Surprisingly, that worked out.

"I've got it!" Molly called, which was completely unnecessary since we were all right there and could all see that she'd just wheeled out a body. Nerves, I guess.

The thing was in a bag, so I couldn't see who it was, but I didn't have to, because a second later Molly unzipped the body. I stared at it. I swore I recognized it, but I couldn't remember who exactly it was. Thankfully Lestrade walked in right at that moment. Thank god for the convenience.

"Connie Prince," Lestrade explained, reading from a clipboard, "Fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on telly. Did you see it?" he asked, looking up at the four of us.

"Unfortunately," I sighed. So _that_ was where I knew the body from. Gem liked to watch the show for tips, being a fashion girl herself. I never enjoyed it, mainly because her information never seemed to apply to me. Still, at least I had a little background on the victim.

"Never," Sherlock said quickly. I chuckled, imagining him watching Connie's show. He shot me a look of annoyance and started examining the body.

"Very popular," Lestrade explained, putting the board under his arm and peering at the body, "She was going places."

"Not anymore," I grinned.

"So," Sherlock began, turning his attention directly to Lestrade, "Dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden."

"How did you know?" I asked. Sherlock just gave me that look again and held up his phone. "Oh…"

"Anyway…" John pointed out, "Nasty wound…" I followed his sight and winced. There was an ugly slash between Prince's thumb and index finger on her right hand. I looked down at my own hand, biting my lip.

"Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream…good night Vienna."

"I suppose."

"Something's wrong with this picture," Sherlock said, looking closer at the cut.

"Eh?"

"Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't have directed us towards it. Something's wrong."

"You're complaining because your job is easier?"

"Shut up a minute," Sherlock hissed, narrowing his eyes and investigating the rest of the body. I tried to see what the hell he was looking for, but saw nothing. I took out my pad and decided to sketch instead. I sketched the cut, and then did a quick outline on the body. I caught Lestrade looking over my shoulder and rolled my eyes, getting back to my work. I'd always been a good artist. I could draw what I saw, I guess I had a good eye.

Not the best, though.

"Damn," I swore, erasing the arm and trying again.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"No, that was me," I exclaimed.

"Not you!"

"What?" John asked.

"The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?" Sherlock asked. I frowned and went back to my sketching. I knew I shouldn't care that Sherlock hated me, but I was beginning to.

"Yeah," John said, moving over to see the cut more clearly and _blocking my view_! Not on purpose, of course, but just as invigorating as it would be if it were planned. I sighed and started doodling, listening to the "deducting" take place.

"But the wound's clean – _very_ clean, and fresh," Sherlock said, examining the cut even closer, "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Eight, ten days," John shrugged, and then he paused, as though just realizing something. I sighed again, shaking my head. Finally, he seemed to understand it, "The cut was made later." Sherlock shot him a lop-sided grin, and even I felt a twinge. Damn attractive prick.

"After she was dead?" Lestrade said by my shoulder, making me jump. Molly snorted at my discomfort and I glared at her. Bitch.

"Must have been," Sherlock clarified, "The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?"

"Would've thought you would've answered that question by now," I snapped, "Or are you not as omniscient as you seem to believe?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and I heard Lestrade stifling a laugh. John grinned in approval, but quickly hid his smile, and Molly looked away, obviously grinning as well.

Then Sherlock surprised me.

"You want to help, right?"

I froze, glaring at him. Then I smiled, slowly, and nodded. Sherlock smirked his lopsided grin and I blushed. He'd noticed. "I hate you," I mumbled, and he laughed.

* * *

 **I don't really have any notes for the chapter. Thanks to Brookie Twiling and Guest for the feedback and ideas, as well as anyone who has reviewed so far. I don't own any Sherlock characters, nor do I own their story lines. Thanks again. XD**


	6. Chapter 6 - Acceptance

**Hi guys. This chapter's a rather long one, and I'm sorry that Moriarty isn't mentioned so much, but patience is great or something so 'just you wait' (heh, Hamilton). I think either next chapter or the one after that will feature Moriarty meeting Ari as himself. Next chapter'll probably be a long one, since I really want the swimming pool scene to come quickly. I own nothing of Sherlock, which I would assume that you know by now because I'm writing this on a _fanfiction_ site, but still out of courtesy I feel obliged to mention my lack of ownership over the greatest show of all time, further highlighting my own incompetence. Thanks for sticking with the story and for any feedback.**

* * *

Chapter 6

Acceptance

After Sherlock had sent John off to gather information and explained to Lestrade what exactly was going on, he took me back to his flat, where he and I strung up pictures and press cuttings about Carl Powers and Colleen Prince, maps of London, notes that Sherlock had taken, all sorts of things. Then we had strung them together, looking for connections. That had, believe it or not, taken several hours.

Occasionally he would slip in snide comments about me, basically just being a bastard, and I would retort. Most of the time, however, it was quiet. I appreciated it, since no matter however attractive this tall man was, he was still an insufferable brat whom I wanted to slap in the face whenever he opened his big mouth.

When we were done, I sat down on the couch and he took a step back from the wall. "Connection, connection, connection…" he muttered under his breathe, pacing back and forth in front of my seating place, "There _must_ be a connection." I rubbed my temples and yawned. Lestrade, who had arrived barely fifteen minutes ago, stood by, watching.

Sherlock stopped moving and pointed towards the board, saying, "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber _knew_ him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing – working his was round the world? Showing off?"

"Probably," I yawned again, stretching. Just then, the pink phone rang. I sat up and Lestrade and I both actively listened as Sherlock switched it onto speaker. For the first time during this case, I _heard_ the hostage speaking on the other end of the line. It felt somehow different.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining the…dots," the old woman's voice said, and I finally understood why this was so serious. This woman sounded terrified, speaking through her tears. She was sobbing, bombed, and she was…wait! This woman was blind! What kind of heartless bastard could _do_ this?

"Three hours: boom…boom." The woman on the phone whimpered in fright and hung up the phone. The line went dead, and so did the little part of me that was so numb to others pain. I felt more aware now than ever before. For some reason it had taken hearing the hostage for me to realize just how important solving the case really was.

"Three more hours?" I asked, eyes wide open. Sherlock looked at Lestrade, then me, then put the phone away and placed his fingers under his chin, looking back at the map. I stretched again and laid back against the couch, crossing my feet over the coffee table.

"I need to make a call," Sherlock said suddenly, taking out his actual phone and moving to the kitchen. I got up and looked at the map, trying to determine something from it.

"See anything?" Lestrade asked, and I shook my head.

"Hey, Sherlock, may I _please_ go back to my flat for, like, a half hour?"

"Fine!"

I grinned and turned to Lestrade, with a little mock wave, before heading down the stairs. I passed Mrs. Hudson on the way, and she smiled warmly. I nodded and slipped out the door. It was getting a little cold, but temperature rarely affected me. Yet _another_ gift from mommy and daddy.

I stopped to look at the bomb site, which was constantly teeming with workmen. Though they _did_ stop work when it got dark, which everyone who lived in the street probably appreciated, including me. I was about to head up when I heard a yell. "Hey, Noxy, what's up?!"

"Shit," I spat, before turning around to face a waving Jim. Damn Jim. I hadn't seen him for a little while, and I'd been beginning to think that I was safe. _Actually_ , my crafty inner voice explained, _you were_ hoping _you'd be seeing him sooner or later_. Jim ran up to me and I was so amazed that I was too late in opening the door.

"Do you really hate me _that_ much?" he asked, pouting, whilst closing the door. I rolled my eyes and let go of the handle reluctantly. When I didn't say anything, he sighed, "Come _on_ , darling. Please?"

" _Why are you here_?"

"Ooh, good question. Remember that friend I was visiting?"

"No."

"Well I visited them again."

"Great. Go away."

"Not so fast, darling," he smirked, and I tried not to blush at the new pet name. He probably noticed, because his smile grew wider, showing his pearl white teeth.

"What do you want, then?" I asked flatly. He grabbed my hand quickly and I pulled it out of his grasp immediately.

"Celebrate, maybe? Work's been going _very_ well recently." He tried to place a hand on my waist and I picked it off delicately, grimacing and ignoring the flutter in my chest.

"Whenever I see you, I feel as though I need to take a shower," I shivered.

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's an insult. Most things I say regarding you are."

He stuck his tongue out, "I only wanted to say hi."

"And _celebrate_. What does that even mean?"

"It means that we go take a shower."

"Creep," I scowled, blushing. Though it _was_ a tempting offer, it had always been my nature to play "hard to get". I didn't know why, I just always chose to make it harder and more…well…fun, I guess. Also I hated this man, I insisted. Love-hate relationship. It was strange that he turned out this way, because he looked so adorable and innocent, like a puppy. I felt like one of my characters, having to deal with the roguish villain. Well, roguish I.T worker. The job wasn't the point.

He faked a look of offense, "How dare you?"

Who did that remind me of? I couldn't put my finger on it. "Hey, I need to go eat, take a shower, and get a little work in, so if you would just shoo…" I pushed him in the chest with my pointer finger and he tipped backward, but then leaned in farther.

"I'm only trying to have a decent conversation," he defended himself, but then the sly look showed in his eyes again and he muttered, "At least until you're _in_ decent."

"Ew!" I yelled, retching, " _Hell_ no!"

He frowned, "Fine. New tactics. I won't leave until you let me…hmm…" He thought for a second and my eyes widened as I realized what he was doing. I tried to opened the door but he shifted so that he was leaning on it. His eyes lit up a couple of times, and I could guess what he was thinking about, which gave me both a prickly, disgusted feeling and a prickly, excited feeling. Disgusted outweighed excited considerably, however, so when his eyes lit up for the last time, I froze in chilled anticipation.

"I won't leave until you let me…" he paused for effect, watching me grit my teeth and wait, "Smell your hair."

I stopped, relief washing over me, "That's it?"

"Disappointed?"

"Relieved, actually. Sure, I'll let you smell my hair." He grinned and beckoned me over. I shrugged and decided to do as he said, just for now, so I walked over near him. Jim straightened up slightly, but still leaned against my door. He was drawing this out. Couldn't he just get this over with?

"Closer," he insisted, and I sighed and did as he said. He leaned over and I thought he was going to kiss me, so I yelped and took a step back. "Are you normally this jumpy?" he asked, raising one dark eyebrow and holding his hand out, "Just give me your damn hair."

"You pervert."

"The hair?"

I groaned and stepped closer again. Unfortunately, I stepped closer than I'd wanted to, so he was practically on top of me. He reached a hand up to my scalp and I grimaced, holding out a strand, "Smell, not touch."

"It was implied."

" _Fine_."

So he grabbed a strand and leaned in to smell it. At that point in my life, it was one of the weirdest things I'd ever done with a love interest and enemy. Things got weirder as life went on, but at that point…

He inhaled my sent, eyes trained on mine, and I noticed that he smelled strongly of vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg. When I noticed that I was noticing things like that, I frowned and pulled my hair back. He let it slip through his fingers, but waited for a second before straightening up and stepping aside so that I could finally reach my door. "May I come up with you?" he asked, feigning politeness.

"No. _Leave_."

He raised his hands in mock surrender and backed away, saying as he went, "Alright, I'm going, I'm _going_!"

I smirked and opened my door, slipping inside and closing it, before heading up the stairs and going to get myself something to eat.

* * *

 **(3** **rd** **POV (Jim))**

He watched the door shut, and thought. She had smelled like a delicious mixture of orange and chocolate, leaving him wondering if she tasted as good as her scent insinuated. Her hair had been soft and sleek, light as air and barely noticeable. Definitely no hair die used. "Until next time, darling," he muttered, finally turning his back and walking away. Work was mostly fun, but it _did_ get boring after a while, dealing with all of the _underlings_. And besides, everyone needed a distraction from time to time. She was his entertainment. His…game.

It didn't hurt that she was attractive, either. _The things I would do to her if I got her alone_ , he thought, smirking to himself. Maybe that would be the game! He hummed a tune, his steps lively but discreet, as he turned a corner, deciding it was time to get back to work. Oh…but one more thing…

* * *

 **(1** **st** **POV (Ari))**

I yawned, slipping my shoes off at the door before getting myself the carton of milk from out of my fridge, closing my curtains again for privacy. As I took a swig of milk, I looked around my cupboards and fridge for something that I was actually willing to eat. I could be picky sometimes.

I sighed. PMS was such a bitch. Speaking of which, that time was coming around. Damn, I wished my family had managed to get rid of my friggin' _menstrual_ cycle while they were messing around with the rest of my genes. Would've been far more useful than getting rid of my temperature sensor thingy or whatever it was. I finally grabbed a red apple from the refrigerator, biting a chunk out of it before going to the bathroom and grabbing a towel and a change of clothes, plopping them both down on the toilet cover. I know, weird to change in the bathroom, but I didn't know if the bomber/murderer guy had managed to set up more cameras while I was away. It was easy enough to check my bathroom, since it was bright and mostly undecorated. I did a quick sweep of the place, checking the corners and the doors and in the shower curtain and everywhere else that seemed relevant. When I found nothing, I sighed and finished my apple, slipping my old shirt back over my pale head and tossing it down onto the tiled floor.

I pulled my socks off and undid my belt, chucking them onto my shirt, before taking my pants, underwear, and bra off and turning the water on, cursing myself for forgetting to do that in the beginning, before I'd changed. While I waited, I finger-combed through my hair, so that it wouldn't be so tough to shampoo and condition later. My gold and white tresses were almost completely combed through already, which didn't surprise me much, since I hadn't really had any room on the couch to squirm like I normally did. Usually my hair was like hell in that it was unruly and untamable, and you never knew what you might find hidden inside it.

When the water was hot enough, I opened the curtains and climbed inside, giving a long, relaxed sigh and all the hot water spilled onto my smooth, normally porcelain, unblemished skin. All of my muscles relaxed completely and my joints loosened comfortably. I got to work scrubbing my body, taking off the thin layer of dust and sweat. It felt so _good_ to finally be clean; to finally be rid of all of that grime. Granted, it hadn't been a _lot_ of dirt, but stuff like that was always noticeable on me.

I lathered up some soap and washed my body with generic body wash. I then went through my hair with shampoo that smelled of chocolate, before choosing some orangey conditioner from the shelf on the outside. I don't know why I always chose that same sweet yet acidic smell, but I'd always liked chocolate orange, so it worked for me. I guess I liked the change from cigarette smoke and car exhaust. Though, London was actually pretty clean when compared to other cities around the globe.

When I had finally cleaned out all of the soap from my body and hair, I climbed back out again and dried off with the crimson towel, before dropping it back onto the toilet seat. I then picked up my new clothes, pulling on the black bra and underwear, the green, torn jeans and tight, white tank top.

Slipping my socks back on, I headed outside to pulled my shoes back on and opened the door. I was about to step out, but when I looked down, I found a pretty, white rose. I raised my eyebrow. If this was Jim, then he was being uncharacteristically charming. I smiled, kneeling down to have a look at the rose, and it was strikingly elegant. I smiled. If Jim was trying to win me over, it wasn't exactly working, but the gesture was still noted and accepted. I swiped it up delicately and, with my free hand, snatched a glass from my cupboard, filling it with water and plopping the beautiful flower into the makeshift vase.

After that was done, I turned back around, finally ready to go back to 221b. So I turned back around, and exited my flat, locking the door behind me. I felt the chill of the air when I stepped outside, but the sensation was more pleasant than otherwise. I crossed the street quickly and headed up to Sherlock's flat. When I walked inside, I found Sherlock, who was still on the phone, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, all clustered around the board. "Any progress?"

"Nope."

"Yeah, it was a real shame, too. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors," Mrs. Hudson sighed, looking closer, while Lestrade turned to her curiously.

"Colors?"

"Oh, not the colors," I sighed, pulling a strand of my wet, now bronze and silver hair around so that I could glare at it spitefully. I remembered Jim again, and winced.

Mrs. Hudson sighed but Lestrade chuckled slightly, looking up, making direct eye contact. I rolled mine as Mrs. Hudson began to explain the color thing. "What goes best with what…I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."

"From what she explained when referencing my situation, I might as well wear nothing at all."

Sherlock finished his phone conversation and Lestrade turned to him, "Who was that?"

"Home office."

"Home office?" I asked, surprised.

"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favor."

I walked to look at the board, standing next to Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Hudson turned look at me, "She was a pretty girl but she messed about with herself too much. They _all_ do these days."

I grinned. She was _too_ right there. "Yeah, and _they're_ doing it on _purpose,_ too. Must be more fun when you're got a say in the matter."

"People can hardly move their faces," Mrs. Hudson said, agreeing with me. We were having a serious conversation, bonding, and I smiled.

" _Yes_! A bit funny, right?"

"Silly, yes," she nodded in replication.

"So you watched her show?"

"Only on occasion. I never really liked it, but my friend works with hair and fashion, so she likes to watch the show for tips."

"Did you watch her show, you two?" I asked Lestrade and Sherlock, and they looked at me, seemingly annoyed.

And suddenly I shipped it.

But anyway… "Not until now," Sherlock explained distractedly. He picked up his own, _inferior_ laptop, opening it to the show. I scowled, irritated, and turned away.

"You look _pasty_ , love!" she said. I rolled my eyes, turning away to sit down on the couch.

"Ah…rained every day but one!" I heard Kenny, Connie's brother, say over the crappy, _inferior_ laptop speaker.

"That's the brother," Mrs. Hudson told the two boys, who were watching the show somewhat uninterestedly, "No love lost there, if you believe the papers."

"So I gather," Sherlock clarified, "I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites – indispensable for gossip."

I chuckled, "That they are." I had come up with a couple good story plots through mashing fan's ideas together. It'd worked, too. People liked where my stories were going, as far as I could tell.

"There's really only one thing we can do with _that_ ensemble, don't you think, girls?" I heard Connie say, "Off! Off! Off! Off!"

"Alright, I've heard enough," I sighed, rubbing my temples and looking towards the door, "Shouldn't we, you know, go talk to the brother?"

Sherlock's phone rang, and he held up one hand, pulling the vibrating phone out of his pocket and answering it, "John."

I tried to listen to what John was saying, but I couldn't identify one word from another. When the babbling on the other end of the line paused, Sherlock said, "I'll remember." He hung up and looked at me.

"C'mon then," Sherlock explained, "I need to pick something up before we head over." I nodded and followed Sherlock out of 221b.

When we got to the street, Sherlock led me down the street, hailing a cab. We climbed in and he told the driver, "South Kensington. Victoria and Albert Museum."

"A museum?"

"Someone there owes me a favor."

"What'd you do?"

"Settled a court case against her ex-girlfriend. There was some trouble with abuse a while back, and I got her arrested.

"You mean the ex?"

"Yes, of course I mean the ex."

"Ah. I like her already."

"You would," he explained.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, but Sherlock only smirked and looked out the window until we arrived.

"Wait here, I'll be back." I waited for five minutes, watching the door of the museum. When he came out, he was carrying a long, thin, black case, like a suit case. I moved over so that the case could fit in the back.

"What's that, then?"

"Camera."

"What?"

"Camera for the case. Which brings me to your part. All you have to do is snoop around the outside of the house. Look for rusty nails and anything that could have caused the cut."

"But I thought you said that the cut was made postmortem, and not by a rusty nail at all!"

"We need to be sure."

"You want me out of the way!" I accused.

"I _need_ proof that Raoul lied. If we have proof, we have grounds to make an arrest if the need arises."

"You think it was the…dammit, I lost the word."

"The houseboy? I'm not sure yet." He paused there, looking out the window again, and the he turned back, "How's Jim?"

"What?" I asked, surprised. _How did he know_? I asked myself, confused.

"You know who I mean. I saw him go up to your flat. Came out a second later. How is he?"

"I did know who went upstairs!"

"And you didn't see him?"

"He didn't knock." I remembered the rose, and blushed. So he _did_ have a sweet side. Or a deceptive side. Either one was different and a little bit cute, actually.

"We're almost there," Sherlock told the driver, and then he looked back.

"Jim's been acting stranger than normal," I explained, "He said he wouldn't leave until I let him do something. So he requested to smell my hair."

"And you let him?"

"How could I not? He wouldn't leave!"

"He'll be back, you know. He's not going to leave you alone forever. Not that you want him to…"

I shoved him, "Shut up!"

"May I?" he asked, reaching over for a tress of my hair.

I sighed and rolled my eyes, "Fuck it. Sure." So I let him reach over and grab a piece of my hair. He smelt it, not in a weird way like Jim had, and then put it back.

"You smell like oranges. And chocolate."

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not. I'm simply stating-

"Telling me how I smell is _weird_. _Really_ weird. Like, it's what _creeps_ do."

"Mm," he hummed, not really paying attention, "We're here."

The cab stopped and I climbed out, helping Sherlock get the bag out of the car. He rushed down the driveway of a large manor house. I looked around, examining the yard. As far as I could tell, going by the house and the state of the flower beds, there wouldn't be anything rusty for an unsuspecting Connie Prince to scratch herself on. Seriously, this was neat-freak paradise.

I did a walk around of the house, snooping around through the rose bushes and the fences. Nothing rusty that I could find. The fences were unmarked, pearl white, and the rose bushes were trimmed down to the last petal.

When I'd walked all the way around the house and was satisfied that there was no way Connie could have cut herself on anything rusty, because there was nothing rusty to cut herself on.

"Hey, Ari!" I heard, and I rushed around the corner to meet both John and Sherlock walking quickly down the drive.

"That was barely ten minutes!"

"We didn't need more than that," Sherlock explained. Then he turned to John, "I suppose you have a suspicion?"

"Yes! Ooh, yes!"

Sherlock smiled, "You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat."

John's face fell for a moment, but the grin fixed itself once again to his face when he shook his head, "What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It _must_ be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

"Well, there was definitely no way for her to cut herself in the garden. Nada. Zilch."

"Lovely idea."

"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have-

"I thought of that the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

John chuckled, "He murdered his sister for her money!"

"Did he?" Sherlock asked.

"Didn't he?" John asked Sherlock. I looked down, grinning. No point in arguing with Sherlock when he'd figured something out. If I understood anything about him, it was that.

"No. It was revenge."

"Revenge?" I asked, "Who wanted revenge?"

"Raoul the houseboy."

"Why?" I asked.

"Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so…" Sherlock explained.

"No, wait, wait. Wait a second," John began, stopping. Sherlock and I stopped as well, looking back. "What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?"

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of the floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life-

"And you didn't even _see_ the garden," I added.

"Yeah, even _you_ smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it." John sniffed his own jacket and I moved over to see what he smelt like. Yep, definitely disinfectant. "Raoul's internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here."

"Yeah, I don't fancy walking. Ooh, there, look!" So Sherlock and his magical cabby hailing abilities got us a ride and we headed off to home, where Sherlock did some more thinking and I lay down on the couch for a couple of hours, watching John update his blog and, when the stench got too strong, watching him look around for new clothes.

"I need to wash my clothes more often," John groaned, shaking his head.

"You _do_ stink," I told him. The disinfectant smell was beginning to spread through the flat. Thank god it wasn't mine.

"Thanks, Ari."

"No prob."

"We've only got two hours. Sherlock, you're on even working on the case. What are you doing?"

"Working."

" _Sherlock_ …" I groaned, "Do something _fun_ …"

"I said I'm _working_."

"Can I _please_ go home?"

"No."

"Pretty please?"

"Why is she so immature?" Sherlock asked, turning to John.

"Because it's more _fun_ ," I stuck out my tongue, turning over and pulling out my phone.

"I imagine the murderer's been texting you quite a lot."

"Yeah," I confirmed.

"You texted back?"

"Yep. He texted me fifty _-_ three _times_! _Fifty-three_ , Sherlock!"

"He must be bored."

"No kidding," John chuckled, holding up a shirt and sniffing it. He recoiled and dropped it back where it had been.

"Boys are _so_ messy," I sighed, wrinkling my nose.

"Men," John corrected. I rolled my eyes.

"Got it!" Sherlock yelled, and I fell off of the couch in surprise.

"Jesus Christ, man, why?"

"I got the case. Scotland Yard. Now!"

"Do you think he ever going to ask politely?" I asked John when Sherlock had already gone down the stairs.

"Doubt it."

"Yeah, you're right," I sighed, "Shall we?"

"We probably should, since I he _will_ leave without us."

I hurried down the stairs after John, and we made it into the evening street just as Sherlock was climbing into his cab. We bolted in and closed the door, heading off to Scotland Yard, probably to deliver the news of whatever Sherlock had discovered. It seemed like he was warming up to me, since he'd allowed me to come along and such.

When we arrived, Sherlock walked briskly into the main office, pulling a folder out of his coat and handing it to Lestrade, "Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince – it was botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl Powers? Our bomber's repeated himself."

Lestrade walked into his office and Sherlock followed. John and I looked at each other, before I asked, "So how'd he do it?"

"Botox injection."

Lestrade turned around, "Botox?"

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months," Sherlock finished, pointing at the folder in Lestrade's hand.

I looked at John again, and saw that his face was getting more and more annoyed, though I couldn't think why. "What's wrong?" I whispered, and John turned to me.

"The hostage."

It took me a second to understand, so I listened to Sherlock until it hit me. As he explained how Prince had died, he knew exactly what he was doing. He'd called the Home Office a few _hours_ ago, which were hours we could've spent saving this old woman. What had he been waiting for?

"You're sure about this?" Lestrade asked, clarifying.

"I'm sure," Sherlock exclaimed.

"Alright – my office," Lestrade ordered, before turning his back and heading into his work space.

Sherlock began to follow, but I stopped him from moving by saying, "Hey, Sherlock. How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you known?" I pressed.

"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was a mistake." He tried to away again, but this time John halted him.

"No, but Sherl… the hostage… the _old woman_. She's been there all this time!" John's voice was getting progressively louder, and I vaguely understood how he was feeling. That woman on the phone was being held against her will by a murderer. She was blind, for god's sakes. The poor woman.

Sherlock leaned in with the look of an annoyed teenager being forced to look after his preschool cousins, "I _knew_ I could save her. I also knew that the bomber gave us _twelve_ hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"

John pursed his lips and shook his head, frustrated. "Is he always like this?"

"Yeah," John confirmed, his voice seeping with disappointment. I looked down, wondering what I'd gotten myself into, but I had no intention of going back.

"And you still share a flat with him?"

John smiled sadly, "My life's always interesting, at least."

I shrugged, "Somehow, it sounds morbidly entertaining." He nodded, understanding.

"I'm going to warn you now, the 'crime fighting' is strangely addicting."

I smiled, "I know what I'm getting myself into, and whatever it is, I've been through worse."

"Like?"

"My parents experimented on me _before I was born_. I was brought up to be an _angel_! Literally! My parents wanted me to become a fucking _angel_! All of that holier than thou shit just encouraged me to be a worse kid. My parents died before my teens and sent me off to the foster system. Finally, I got out and set my life straight. At least now I'm alright."

"Wow," John's eyes widened, "That explains a lot."

"Gee, thanks," I jested, punching John lightly in the arm. "Oh look, he's got a laptop," I pointed to Sherlock, who was now sitting at a desk with yet _another_ inferior computer.

"At least he's finally saving that old woman," John sighed, frowning.

"Ooh, look, the phone!" I nudged him as the phone rang.

"You're overexcited."

"Hell yeah I am."

John rolled his eyes and we listened to the half of the conversation that we could perceive.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked.

Silence, then, "Tell us where you are. Address."

John and I exchanged a look as it all went wrong. The old woman must've started to say something, because Sherlock's expression changed from normal, to worried.

"No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. _Nothing_ ," Sherlock paused then to listen to the old woman, and then… "Hello?"

"Sherlock?" I asked, worried.

"What happened?" John asked, though we both had our suspicions. I felt a pang in my heart, one which I rarely felt for anyone except for my closest friends. I was opening up again. It had been so long since I'd been mistreated, that I understood why my feeling made sense.

Sherlock didn't respond, but instead leaned back in his chair, looking more frustrated than I'd ever seen him before. He only stared ahead, and Lestrade, seeming to understand, straightened and sighed. John placed his hands on the back of Sherlock's chair and I looked at my feet, trying to be respectful.

"I was so sure…" Sherlock began, but his voice trailed off and we sunk into an uncomfortable silence.

"Should we…?" I asked after about ten minutes, gesturing at the door.

"Yeah, sure…" John nodded, "Sherlock?"

"I'll catch up."

I sighed and John and I headed out, the knowledge of what had just happened weighing on our shoulders. "D'you think he's okay?" I asked, looking back at what I could see of Sherlock, who was standing by the window.

"I don't care, honestly. He could use some humility."

"M'kay."

"You think I'm being harsh?"

"No, I agree," I nodded honestly. After that we walked in silence, hailing a cab and heading back to 221b. I sat down on the couch, but didn't really feel like sleeping just yet.

"I'm gonna head over to my flat and grab my laptop real quick, 'kay?"

"I'm not Sherlock; I don't care what you do."

"Back in a sec," I nodded, trying to smile but not managing to. I was feeling like a completely different person. The hostage situation had never been so real. I made a mental note to integrate this feeling into my writing. I know that sounds selfish, but how else was I to deal with feelings like this. I got into my apartment and hastily snatched my baby (computer) from the table where it sat.

When I got back to 221b, Sherlock had somehow appeared out of nowhere. I'd only been gone for two minutes, yet he was playing his violin as though he'd been there for hours. I sighed and sat down on the couch, opening my laptop and starting my lighting-typing. Normally I listened to dubstep and EDM music, but the violin didn't hurt.

 _"_ _Foot prints!" Blanc called, "Fucking_ foot prints _! There are fucking_ foot prints _, and you_ missed _them!"_

 _Hayden winced as Blanc hollered at him. She had just been allowed on the crime scene, and she was getting increasingly pissed at the deputy, who was supposed to be managing the scene while the official Detective Inspector was out for ten or so minutes. Hayden had, of course, let her in while he was in charge, since DI Taylor was off grabbing some coffee. Taylor and Blanc were still at odds since the last time she'd gotten caught two weeks ago._

 _"_ _Listen, I let you on this case, now what can you tell us?" Hayden asked, trying to quiet her as her voice grew steadily louder. She complied, somewhat unwillingly, and climbed down off of the table she had been standing on. The other police had been going about their business as if she wasn't there, knowing that she was their best bet for the case._

 _"_ _Well," Blanc said, this time deliberately calmly, "There's definitely been a murder, no doubts there, but I would need the murder weapon to identify the killer. Can you get me the murder weapon?"_

 _"_ _We don't have it, Blanc."_

 _"_ _Shit," she hissed, looking around the cordoned off street one last time, "I guess I'll have to find it, then."_

 _"_ _Don't drag_ him _into this!" Hayden tried to command her._

 _"_ _He's our best bet. Cameras are out, and the murder weapon's missing. We've got foot prints, but that's not exact enough. They're shoes prints, and we're in fucking_ London _! No way can we do this without him."_

 _"_ _It's just that whenever we ask him for help, it feels like I'm a dirty cop!" Hayden whined._

 _"_ _Ugh, come_ _on_ _, Hayden. We've got to let_

There was a pause in the music, and I felt a plop on the cushion next to me, followed by Sherlock leaning over my shoulder, reading what I'd written so far. I ignored him, trying to get back to work, but then…

"Who's 'him'?" Sherlock asked, "And what happened between Detective Inspector Taylor and Blanc?"

"Predict it or something," I growled, not about to spoil my story.

"I can't predict what relies completely on another person's imagination."

"Read the books, then, 'cos I ain't spoilin' the story."

Sherlock stayed silent, and I sensed that he was busy reading my story. I turned away from him so that my feet were against his thigh and the screen was facing away. He let out a sigh and got up, heading to his bedroom. I went back to my work, finishing my sentence, and then looking at the time. Wow, 10:00 o'clock already? If tomorrow was the same as today, then it might be a good idea to go to sleep right then.

I saved my work and closed down my laptop, placing it on the table, patting it affectionately before pulling a pillow to the edge. I was a little cold, so before I lay down, I got up and walked down the hall, knocking on Sherlock's door.

"Oi, Sherly, d'ya have a spare blanket?" I yelled as quietly as I could. I heard a groan from inside and then footsteps, before I had a fuzzy mass of shit shoved in my face. "Gee, thanks," I acknowledged sarcastically, gathering the blanket in my arms and looking up. I wasn't _that_ shocked that he wasn't wearing a shirt, since apparently that was what guys did most of the time. He _did_ look rather attractive, but I hated him too much to care whether or not he was good-looking.

I walked back to the couch and lay down, snuggling into the cheap fuzz and falling asleep almost immediately.

* * *

 **Hi guys. This chapter's a rather long one, and I'm sorry that Moriarty isn't mentioned so much, but patience is great or something so 'just you wait' (heh, Hamilton). I think either next chapter or the one after that will feature Moriarty meeting Ari as himself. Next chapter'll probably be a long one, since I really want the swimming pool scene to come quickly. I own nothing of Sherlock, which I would assume that you know by now because I'm writing this on a _fanfiction_ site, but still out of courtesy I feel obliged to mention my lack of ownership over the greatest show of all time, further highlighting my own incompetence. Thanks for sticking with the story and for any feedback.**


	7. Chapter 7 - Stars

**Hi. Before you continue reading, I've got some update news. I won't be able to update next week because I'm heading to Massachusetts for Christmas and New Years and I can't bring my laptop with me because it would "interfere with family time". Sorry for the bad news, and happy holidays!**

* * *

Chapter 7

Stars

That night I had a few dreams, some about Jim, some about my story, a couple about me whooping Sherlock's ass, but the only one I care to explain was the continuation of the previous night's slumber. It began exactly where the last one had left off. The demon guy was where he had left off, and I was as confused as ever why I was stuck here instead of whooping Sherlock's ass again.

I waited impatiently, wondering if I could do anything while the demon thing moved toward me at a _deliberately_ slow rate. I fidgeted, looked around, and watched a couple of demon 'underlings' or whatever try to put out a tiny fire. It wasn't very interesting, so I looked back ahead and squealed. He was a few yards away, staring at me with cold, dead eyes. The one problem was, before I could get a good look at him, I was zipped back to the waking world. "Holy shit, _now_?" I whined, which I later realized had been out loud.

"Get up, we have stuff to do," I heard Sherlock's baritone voice as someone shook my shoulders.

"Do stuff without me," I grumbled.

"Sherlock, let her sleep!" I heard a yell from what sounded like the stairs outside of the flat.

"Amen to that, John Watson," I groaned, turning away from Sherlock to face the couch. I got prodded in the back a couple of times, and I think he kneed me, but I'm not sure. I covered my head with the pillow and curled up as best I could. A second later I was on the floor.

"Ow!" I groaned, rolling over, "What the _hell_ , Sherly?!"

"Get up, there's something you need to watch."

I pouted, but sat up on the couch, while Sherlock turned the television onto the news. "Shit!" I gasped, watching the footage of a crumbling building as BBC newscasters explained to us what the fuck had happened.

We listened to the newsreader explain, "The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people, was said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company…"

Sherlock picked the remote up and muted the TV, while John said, " _He_ certainly gets around."

I pulled out my phone while Sherlock responded, "Well, obviously I lost that round – though technically I _did_ solve the case." I frowned, feeling a little angry at Sherlock. The only thing he seemed to care about was the case and his pride, "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What d'you mean?" I asked, "He texts me a _lot_. Doesn't that qualify as firing line?"

"You still can't describe him as anything more than what he allows you to envision him as. This time was different. Usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things but no one ever has direct contact. Well, save you, but you can't do anything about it."

"Does texting count as direct contact?" I asked.

Sherlock nodded, "But we can't trace the call. He's too smart."

"Damn, you mean like the pink phone?"

"Yes."

"Wait a minute…" John silenced us, "That means…like the Connie Prince murder – he-he _arranged_ that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

"Well he certainly gets the job done," I weighed in, gesturing to the TV and the destruction it displayed. Now that we were all comfortably referring to the old woman's death, or at least _semi_ -comfortably, I felt much more at ease falling back into my old habits.

"Novel," I heard Sherlock mutter, and I rolled my eyes. Of _course_ he'd think something like that.

"Oh, look," I said, pointing as the screen changed to a picture of Raoul de Santos being jostled out of Kenny Prince's house and shoved into a police car by an officer. I grinned, knowing that I had been a part of this. It felt empowering, and I could understand why John and Sherlock loved this type of thing.

Sherlock looked down at the sickeningly pink iPhone, "Taking his time this time."

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John asked.

"Didn't you already solve the Carl Powers case?" I asked.

"We know how he died; we don't know who murdered him."

"We know it was the bomber."

"Yes, but we don't know _who_ that is! All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl," John added, which made sense to me.

"The thought had occurred," Sherlock clarified.

"So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you?" John asked, "D'you think he wants to be caught?"

"Why would he want to be caught?" I asked, not understanding.

"You'd be surprised."

"I'm sure I would," I laughed, looking at Sherlock, "But seriously, why would be doing this if not to get caught? Boredom?"

"Exactly."

"So basically, I was right."

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, looking back at me. John looked between us and got up from his chair, walking into the kitchen.

"I was right, when I first met you. About the boredom."

"Ah, yes, you were. It's true, I think he wants to be distracted."

"I hope you'll be very happy together!" John called angrily from the kitchen, walking a little way back to stand in the door way. At first, I thought he was referring to me and Sherlock, but a second later, I understood that he meant Sherlock and the bomber.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, apparently on the same train of thought as I was.

John placed his tense hands on the back of the chair and practically hollered, "There are _lives_ at stake, Sherlock- actual, _human_ lives! Just – just so I know, do you care about that at all?!"

I raised my eyebrows, turning to see Sherlock's reaction. I half expected him to come to a realization at the situation. He, of course, did not do as I had expected, but instead said, impatiently, "Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope!" John shook his head, exasperated beyond belief. I could see Sherlock's point, but I could also see that it was one of the coldest, meanest, most sociopathic thing anyone had ever said. I was accustomed to sociopath behavior, having been friends with one (Blaze) all of my life, but she at least monitored her terminology when around other people. She, for instance, didn't bring up caring about other people when it wasn't in reference to us, mainly because she knew that she and El would end up arguing a shit-load, but also out of respect for our comfort.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"To not," I muttered under my breath, feeling the need to correct his grammar because the sentence didn't sound right to me, but not wanting to but in on their "domestic". Sherlock jerked his head slightly in my direction, as if to say "piss off".

"And you find that easy, do you?" John asked, taking his head jerk to heart.

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No," John said, eyes dangerous, and he smiled reluctantly and not at all convincingly, "No." Their gazes collided for a second, and I watched as Sherlock scanned John's eyes, apparently trying to deduce his feelings or something.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock informed John, after a short silence.

John was still smiling sardonically, and he pointed at Sherlock in the same sarcastic manner, "That's good. That's a good deduction."

" _Don't_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." A long silence hung in the air, and I almost wanted to go back to sleep, as the two boys stared at each other. I was just lying down when the pink phone rang, and I swore darkly while Sherlock smiled, "Excellent!" I scoffed turning away from the guys and covering myself in a blanket.

I heard one beep, or pip, as I believed it'd been called, and then a long beep. I don't know what it was called; maybe a tone or something? Anyway, if we were just one left, something was bound to happen when we were done. However much I wanted to be involved, right now my main priority was sleeping in my own bed, because this couch was _not_ doing wonders for my back.

"What is it?" I asked from the couch, turning around to see Sherlock's reaction.

"View of the Thames. South Bank; somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. I grabbed my laptop from the table and opened it.

"Sweet, I can access my Wi-Fi from here," I muttered, opening Google.

"You check the papers, John; we'll look online," Sherlock said, taking out his actual phone, which was, thankfully, not pink. His phone was, of course, not as amazingly beautiful as my laptop, not even close. Sherlock looked up to see John, hands still tight on the back of the chair, head bowed crossly. "Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help," Sherlock sighed, as though speaking to a prideful child.

John looked up and shrugged, which basically meant a yes. I was already going through sources, but there wasn't anything that I could seem to find. I looked up when Sherlock said, "Not much cop, this caring lark," clicking the 'k' in the last word. I rolled my eyes and went back to my work. Sherlock did as well, going back to his phone.

I looked up a minute later when John sat down next to me and began going through newspaper articles on the coffee table. I sat up (mainly to give myself more space) and kept working. "Archway suicide," John said, skimming through the pages.

"Ten a penny," Sherlock snapped irritably, eyes glued to his phone.

"Fatal robbery by Waterloo bridge," I said as a relevant article popped up.

"Happens all the time."

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington," John said aloud, and then, when Sherlock didn't respond, he picked up a new paper, "Ah. Man found on the train line – Andrew West."

Sherlock looked up exasperatedly and burst, "Nothing!" He hit a button on his phone and held it to his ear, "It's ne. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?" I assumed that he was calling Lestrade, so I sighed and quickly ran my fingers through my hair, trying to smooth it out as best I could.

"Is there any point in asking to go change clothes?" I asked, cursing myself for not bringing myself a pair last night when I'd brought my baby (laptop) over from my flat.

"Come on," Sherlock hung up and ignored my question, walking out of the flat and down the stairs. I closed my computer and got up, following John out of the flat, down the stairs and into the cab that Sherlock was holding. I scrambled in and we set off, not to Scotland Yard as I'd expected, but to the south back of the River Thames.

"What'd he say?" I asked Sherlock in reference to Lestrade.

"He said that he was just addressing a body on the bank. _That's_ where we're going."

"Alrighty then," I nodded, leaning my head against the window and looking out, "Damn, I don't get out enough." It was true, I'd taken a tour within the week of getting out of the system, and then waited a few months for Gem and finally, three months more for El to both be considered free, legal adults, and then all four of us eighteen-year-olds had found ourselves homes and figured out the "lay of the land". It had been around eleven years since I had really gotten a 'proper' tour. Maybe this Christmas, since I'd taken the tour in the summer, and never gone around in the snow before.

As my thoughts drifted aimlessly, not bothering to settle on anything in particular, we passed buildings and drove along the street, elevated over the shore of the river. "Hey, look, that's them, isn't it!"

No one responded, but when I caught sight of Lestrade's grey hair, I knew I was right. Also, the car pulled over. And there were, like, _five_ police cars. Okay, how I knew we were there is beside the point! The point is, we got to the crime scene! I sat up and opened the door, hopping outside stretching in the chilly air. It was, of course, around 55o Fahrenheit, so everyone else was bundled up, and then there was me in a thin, white, cotton tank top. Weird, huh.

I jogged over to Lestrade, who was waiting by the body. He gave me a fleeting glance and dismissed my bare skin. It wasn't _that_ cold out, so I wasn't acting that strange. _Just you wait 'till winter, Lestrade. Just you wait…_ I thought to myself, smirking as I envisioned a bundled up Lestrade ogling my uncovered arms.

"D'you reckon this is connected, then?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, who was tugging a pair of latex gloves over his hands and watching the forensics to their job, "The bomber?"

" _Must_ be. Odd, though…he hasn't been in touch."

"I can check if he's busy, or…" my voice faded off as Sherlock nodded and I pulled out my work phone, glad to be of some use.

When it opened, I got the little Siri voice, telling me the following: " **You have (472) new messages!"** "Holy shit!" I gasped, nearly dropping my phone, "Does this guy even sleep?! I mean, if he's organizing these murders, then how does he have time to text me 472 fucking times!? And their all a decent length, too! How the fuck…"

"So he's probably sitting back and watching, now," Sherlock explained, taking the phone out of my hands and scrolling through the messages, "Well, he certainly _is_ smitten."

"Who uses the word 'smitten' anymore?" I asked, rolling my eyes, "What'd he say."

Sherlock cleared his throat and began to read them aloud, which was definitely _not_ what I had intended him to do, and he knew it. "Ahem, _damn, you're cute when you're confused_. _You squirm when you sleep, did you know_? _I really hope that you don't mind me sleeping in your bed while you're out, I'm just getting used to it for future endeavors. If there weren't so many people around, I'd fuck you now, but Sherlock and John are there. Then again, I_ am _good at getting rid of witnesses…_ "

"Sherlock!" I squealed, my face bright red. I snatched the phone from his grasp and turned it off, stuffing it hastily into my pocket. Lestrade and John were both staring at me and I only blushed harder, embarrassed beyond belief. Sherlock smirked down at me and I punched him hard in the arm, "I fucking _hate_ you!"

" _But_ ," Lestrade interrupted, obviously changing the subject on purpose, "We must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, dropping his smirk, stepping back to look at the body. I turned to follow his gaze, and saw that the body was now on its back, laid out on a body sized plastic tarp.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked while John and I watched Sherlock do his 'job'.

"Does he get paid to do this?" I asked John.

"Nope."

"Then how do you-?"

"Me."

"Ah…" That made sense, I guess. John _did_ seem like the responsible one.

"Seven, so far!" Sherlock interrupted my thoughts, and I rolled my eyes. Damn intelligent show-off.

"Seven?" Lestrade asked exasperatedly, probably thinking the same as me.

Sherlock ignored him, walking over to the body and kneeling down to closely examine the man's face, using the magnifier he always seemed to carry with him. He then looked at the ripped shirt pocket, and worked his way down to the feel, where he pulled of one of the socks. I watched him look closer at the bare foot, before turning up and closing the handy magnifier and jerking his head to the body, give John nonverbal permission to examine it himself.

I vaguely remembered him being a doctor, but I didn't know much about it. John looked at Lestrade to make sure it was okay, and he held up his hands in a 'be my guest' sort of motion. He looked so done, having given up on stopping these two a while ago.

John squatted down next to the body where Sherlock had been, grabbing the wrist as though to check the pulse. Sherlock was on his phone again, probably doing research. "He's dead about twenty-four hours…maybe a bit longer," John said, before looking back up at Lestrade inquiringly, "Did he drown?"

"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

"Who would choke someone when it takes so much less effort to chuck 'em in a river and drown them?" I asked.

"The characteristic could be helpful," Sherlock said from off to the side. I shrugged, seeing his point.

"There's quite a lot of bruising around the nose and mouth," John pointed out, before gesturing to the temples, "More bruises here and here."

"Fingertips," Sherlock muttered thoughtfully, and I looked at him.

"Whatd'ya mean? Those marks were inflicted by _fingertips_?"

Sherlock nodded while John stood up and walked over to more effectively relay his information, "In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition."

Sherlock walked over as well, "He's been in the river for a long while. The water destroyed most of the data." He grinned, and I shifted impatiently, foreseeing a show-off moment, "But I'll tell you one thing: the lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"How'd you make _that_ jump?" I asked sarcastically, holding my hands up for emphasis.

"We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates…"

"Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait," Lestrade interrupted, "What painting? What are you…what are you on about?"

"It's been all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds." I perked up, at the sound of art, which was my choice hobby.

"Okay. So what has _that_ got to do with the stiff?" Lestrade asked seemingly annoyed as hell at Sherlock's tactics.

Sherlock grinned for a second, "Everything."

"Could you be a little more cryptic?" I asked sardonically.

"Have you ever heard of the Golem?" Sherlock asked, looking directly at me.

"Isn't that a character from The Lord of the Rings?" I asked.

"I could've sworn it was a horror story," John corrected.

"Whatever, Hobbit boy," I snapped, though I was smiling.

"What are you saying?" John asked.

"That you look like a hobbit."

His eyebrow furrowed, and he seemed to be thinking about it. Then he swiftly changed the subject, "What are you getting at, Sherlock?"

"Stage one denial," I muttered, but I knew everyone had heard me.

"Jewish folk story," Sherlock responded to John, ignoring me once again, "A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin, real name Oscar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world."

"Oh!" I gasped. I vaguely remembered researching assassin techniques for my second book and finding myself reading an article on this guy, "You mean…he's that guy that crushes peoples' skulls or something! This is a hit!"

"Definitely," Sherlock said, flashing a rare lopsided smile in my direction. I was a little taken aback that he'd agreed with me, but also rather proud, "The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what has this got to do with the painting?" Lestrade asked, "I don't see-

Sherlock retaliated, irritated, "You do _see_ ; you just don't _observe_ -

"All right, all right girls, calm down," John interrupted, and I chuckled. John the mediator; another chapter to my 'Sherlock Guide Book', "Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?"

There was a small, awkward pause, and then Sherlock heeded John's word, "What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much; just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal; maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt; cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then What _kind_ of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shot him a look. I was a little offended, because I had been about to say what Lestrade had said.

"Security guard?" John answered, and I nodded. That made slightly more sense.

"More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside."

"Backside?!" Lestrade inquired, sounding over exasperated.

"Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise."

I knelt down to take a look and my eyebrows shot up, "Holy shit, you're right!"

"Yes," Sherlock smirked, "So, a lot if walking _and_ a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts." I looked at the wrist watch and smiled, seeing for the first time where Sherlock was going with this.

"The buttons, right?" I asked him, and he nodded.

"What? Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm the night before he died," Lestrade suggested, and I was going to explain what Sherlock was thinking, but he did it for me, which was both annoying and a bit of a letdown.

"The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he could have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution." At this point, Sherlock stuck his hands into his pocket and pulled out a wad of what looked like mushed up paper, "Found this inside his trouser pocket. Sodden by the river, but still recognizably…"

"Tickets?" John asked, peeking over to look more closely at the ball of paper.

"Ticket _stubs_ , right?" I asked, gesturing.

Sherlock nodded, "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check; the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant?"

"He knew something?" I asked, and Sherlock smirked.

"Yes, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The pictures a fake."

There was a pause again, and then John, who was gazing admirably at Sherlock, spoke, "Fantastic."

"Meretricious," Sherlock shrugged peevishly.

"Intriguing," I admitted.

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade finished. John raised his eyebrows at him and Lestrade grinned sheepishly. I smiled. Being around these people was really quite fun when you excluded the ever-present stench of death and sorrow everywhere they went.

"Poor sod," John sighed, indicating the dead body.

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade explained, taking a couple of steps back.

"Pointless," Sherlock shot him down, "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" Lestrade asked, curious.

 _It's him isn't_ , I thought to myself and sure enough-

"Me."

Sherlock grinned and walked away. John and I exchanged a look, before following Sherlock up to catch yet _another_ cab.

John and I climbed inside the cab and John sat back against the hair. Sherlock took the pink phone out of his pocket as the vehicle set off through the city, and he spent a few minutes glaring at it, "Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?"

He suddenly seemed to have an idea, because he leaned forward to speak to the driver, "Waterloo Bridge."

"Where now? The Gallery?" I asked.

"In a bit."

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it?" John asked, "Why have they got hold of an Old Master?"

"Dunno," Sherlock shrugged, "Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data. Can I borrow your notebook?" he suddenly asked me, and I nodded automatically and took it out of my pocket, handing it to him. He flipped to the end, which was empty, and wrote something down with a pen he had had in his pocket. He pulled the small page out, folding it, and sticking it inside a banknote which he folded around the note. I took the book back and stuffed it back into my pants pocket next to my phone.

A second later, Sherlock looked out the window and then called, "Stop!" The cab pulled over and Sherlock got out, turning back to say, "You wait here. I won't be a moment", before vaulting over the railing at the pavement's edge. John and I looked at each other again before both getting out of the cab and telling the driver to wait for a second.

"Sherlock…" John muttered.

"Does he ever actually explain what he's doing?" I asked, hopping easily over the fence and following Sherlock as he bounded up some steps. I saw a young looking woman dressed in ragged, mismatched clothing, sitting on a bench under the bridge. There was a bag next to her, as well as a card board sign that said "HUNGRY AND HOMELESS". Sherlock walked right up to her and I stood back to watch.

"Change? Any change?" he young woman asked, and I smiled. I liked to carry around banknotes in my wallet reserved specifically for homeless folks I might see on my way around. Ain't charity lovely? Sherlock and the woman conversed for a few minutes, and then he handed the woman the banknote and, as I assumed, the note as well.

"What are you doing?" John asked when Sherlock walked back down the steps and we all jumped back over the railing.

"Investing."

I looked back and watched the woman unfolding the note, while Sherlock reopened the cab door. "What was on the note?"

"Now we go to the Gallery," Sherlock explained, ignoring me. I pouted and looked out the window, but, "Have you got any cash?"

John sighed and nodded, while I shook my head. My wallet was at home in my coat.

When we arrived at Hickman Gallery, Sherlock stepped out and beckoned for me to come out of the cab as well. John was about to follow, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, "No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address." John nodded and the cab drove away, while Sherlock and I turned our backs and walked up the steps to the gallery.

"Why can't _I_ go?" I asked, pouting, "I'm just as safe with John as I am with you!"

"I might need you. I assume that you know how to shoot?"

"How did you know?" I asked, smirking. Blaze had gotten out of the system first and relearned how to shoot, having already had background knowledge from her dad, who had taught her to fire a gun when she was younger. When I got out, she taught me how and I had to admit, I was quite a good shot. Not as good as Blaze or the police, but better than many, which was enough for me.

"I…uh…read some of your writing. Only someone with experience would have been able to describe the feeling you get from firing a gun."

"Well it's not like I've ever killed anyone," I shrugged.

"And we can hope you won't have to."

"You're being over dramatic."

"Am I?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't even have my own gun. I just shoot for the hell of it, 'cos it's fun!"

"Yet you penalize _me_ for shooting in the comfort of my own home!" he chuckled. I frowned, rolling my eyes, ignoring the fact that he had a completely valid point.

"So, why am I here?" I asked, looking up at him.

"You remember the texts, yes?"

"Say no more," I blushed. Sherlock was getting at the fact that the Bomber seemed to be getting more aggressive and sexual. Hearing Sherlock read that had, in later years, been a highlight of our time together, mainly because he would _never_ seriously say something like that ever again.

"Come with me; I need new clothes."

"What?"

* * *

Sherlock had managed to procure a security guard outfit, and he was changing in the employees' rest room. He had convinced me to wait outside the stall and hold onto his clothes, so soon I was carrying a purple shirt, black pants, a scarf, shoes, and a coat, which I had decided to put on for more arm room, even though the coat was huge on me.

The door opened and Sherlock was wearing the security guard uniform, a standard white shirt, black pants, black jacket and black cap. I rolled my eyes as he looked at himself in the mirror, "Convincing?"

"Sure."

"Take my coat off!"

"No."

He frowned and headed out, "Wait here."

"M'kay."

So I waited for fifteen minutes in the men's' room, feeling more and more awkward by the second. If another security guard walked in right now, they'd catch a ridiculous looking, multicolored woman wearing a trench coat and holding a pile of clothes.

After fifteen minutes, I had a mini heart attack when I heard the bathroom door open, but it was just Sherlock. He didn't have the jacket, and he reached out to take the coat from me, but I shook my head and passed him the rest of his clothes.

"I'll meet you outside?"

"Sure," Sherlock consented, already inside a stall. I walked out of the bathroom and jogged out of the museum, looking around. Then I plopped down on the stairs and looked up at the sky, which was getting dark. Boy was the sky pretty.

* * *

 **(3** **rd** **POV (*SPOILER* It's Moriarty))**

He watched her sit on the steps and look up in the sky, smiling calmly. She seemed almost angelic in the dying light, her beautiful gold and white, sweet smelling hair bouncing around her slim, rounded shoulders. He couldn't scan her figure, partially because he was so far away, but mostly because she was _wearing_ Sherlock's _coat_! He felt anger boiling up inside his chest as he watched her deceivingly innocent face upturned to the sky.

At least he would be meeting her soon. Things were escalating, and he couldn't keep himself from stepping in and playing much longer. It was entertaining to annoy the mismatched author, but only a pass-time. He was waiting for Sherlock to make the move, to initiate the meeting. He was still waiting to see if his distraction would work, or if his hand would be forced.

Meanwhile, he watched Sherlock walk out of the museum and hail a taxi, followed by Ari.

* * *

Sherlock and I went home to his flat, but we were only there for a minute before he looked out the window and decided to head back outside. I looked to see what had changed his mind, and saw the homeless woman making her way up to street to outside his flat. I quickly headed downstairs, seeing a cab that supposedly held John pulling over to in front of the door.

Sherlock and I went outside just as John was getting out of his cab. "Spare change? Any spare change?"

Sherlock looked over at the woman, before walking over to John.

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art," John informed us.

"And?" Sherlock asked.

"And…?" John questioned, confused.

Sherlock and John started walking towards the girl with me by their side, as John relayed the information he had received. "Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?" Sherlock interrogated, while I waited somewhat patiently for John to finish explaining.

"No, give us a chance!" John insisted, "He was an amateur astronomer."

Sherlock stopped, "Hold that cab." John nodded and walked quickly back to the car and asked the driver to wait.

"Spare change, Sir?" the woman asked.

"Don't mind if I do," Sherlock grinned, as though he'd been offered to eat something.

The girl handed Sherlock a piece of paper, and by standing next to him and looking over his - well, not his shoulder, but certainly somewhere around his upper arm - I could see what was written on the paper. "VAUXHAUL ARCHES", I read aloud. Sherlock nodded and smiled at the woman, who walked on down the street, away from us.

"Fortunately, I _haven't_ been idle," Sherlock smirked at John, opening the cab door and hopping inside, "Come on." So John and I climbed into the taxi.

"We're going to Vauxhall Arches, right?" I inquired, "Is that where Golem is?"

"Supposedly."

After about ten minutes of driving, we arrived at the Vauxhall Arches, and Sherlock got out and began to walk down the street. John and I followed, and I handed Sherlock his coat back. The air was nice on my skin, and I stretched happily.

"Aren't you cold?" John asked me, eyeing my arms.

"Nah."

"Okay…" John shrugged.

"You don't believe me," I sighed, "Honestly, I'm _fine_. I don't really get cold. I blame my parents. Honestly, I blame _everything_ on my parents."

"What else did they do to you?" John asked.

"Well, I've got the looks of an angel, the mind of a recuperating sadist and the physical build of a twenty-nine-year-old woman. I _really_ hope that's all that was done to me. The worst thing? My mom was _pregnant_ when they did a lot of the injection stuff. I was born with this hair 'n the skin."

Sherlock looked at me for a second, examining my hair, and then he looked up at the sky, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

I looked up too, "Yeah, I guess." Miraculously, the stars were able to be seen here, in this part of the city. Maybe it was because of the lack of light.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that," John said to Sherlock.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

I smiled. For once, Sherlock had said something that sounded human. He noticed, my smile and frowned at me, which only made my grin widen as we walked into the Arches. John began to tell us more about Alex, "Listen: Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat – a Professor Cairns?"

"This way," Sherlock told us.

Many of the walls were lined with homeless people, and the only light we could see flickered like a fire. "Nice!" John sighed, "Nice part of town. Er, any time you wanna explain."

"Homeless network; really is indispensable."

"Homeless network?" John asked.

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Oh, that's clever. So you scratch their backs and-

"Yes, then I disinfect myself," Sherlock explained.

"Ah," I pretended to understand, "Of course, I should've known. You trust homeless people more than the police. Typical Sherly."

"Sherly?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but John gasped, apparently having seen something, "Sherlock!"

I looked around the corner and saw the shadow of a huge man slowly standing up. "Come on!" Sherlock ordered, and I began ducked into the shadows of the wall with the other two.

"What's he doing?" John asked, "Sleeping rough?"

"Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag…much."

John looked down and sighed, "Oh shi…"

Sherlock pulled a pistol from his pocket, "What?"

"I wish I'd…"

"Don't mention it," Sherlock smirked, handing me a pistol as well. I grinned and cocked the gun. So _this_ was why Sherlock had been wondering about my gun skills. It was true, I'd never shot person before, but I knew where to aim, and I'd shot all sorts of dummies and targets.

I looked around the corner once more and watched the shadow straighten fully to about seven feet tall and begin to walk off, strangely hunched over, as though he was walking on his toes. Then it broke off running. Sherlock and John exchanged looks and then the three of us dashed off after the Golem. But when we made it behind the corner, we saw him clambering into the waiting car. Said car sped off and I sighed, deciding that it would be a bad idea to shoot after a moving car.

"No, no, no, _no_!" Sherlock yelled, "It'll take us _weeks_ to find him again!"

"Or not," John began, and Sherlock and I both turned to him, "I have an idea where he might be going."

"What?" I asked.

"I told you: someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be _that_ many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on!"

So Sherlock hailed a cab and we were driving back to the flat when we were passing the Planetarium. I fell forward when Sherlock told the car to stop. "Oi!" I yelled, "What the hell, man!"

"Get out!" he yelled, opening the door and running out of the cab. I yelped and did what I was told without complaint, beginning to see what Sherlock was thinking. All three of us dashed into the planetarium, guns ready. When we got inside, I could hear the video still playing.

" _GOLEM_!" Sherlock yelled, and I heard a scuffle farther inside the theater.

The narrator of the video kept speaking, "…many are long dead supernovas." I heard a snap and a thud, and then the footage at the front of the room went into fast-forward.

"John!" Sherlock called.

"I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!" John hissed, "Ari, you head in there and shoot him if you can!"

"Aye aye, Captain!" I whispered back, winking. John shot me a death glare before moving around to try to get eyes on Golem, and Sherlock ran into the center of the room. The only light in the room was the screen currently displaying a video of the galaxy on fast-forward, causing the lighting to be inconsistent, like strobe lighting.

I made sure my gun was cocked and then followed Sherlock, creeping silently even though being quiet was completely unnecessary. I couldn't be the only one who crept like this automatically when faced with an assassin. Right? Whatever.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" Sherlock said loudly, his deep voice echoing in the circular room. I looked around for the Golem but could so far see nothing.

"Sherlock!" I jumped as from behind him the Golem emerged from the darkness behind him and, before Sherlock could react, clamped his huge hands over Sherlock's mouth, nose and neck. I would've shot him, but I was afraid I'd shoot Sherlock. The lighting was so inconsistent that I couldn't really aim properly.

Sherlock flailed around, trying to pry the suffocating hands off of his face. "Golem!" John raced over, cocking his gun and aiming it directly at the Golem's face, before saying steadily, "Let him go, or I _will_ kill you."

Sherlock groaned as he tried again to breath. The Golem moved Sherlock so that he could kick the gun out of John's hand. I fired in his open moment and heard the bullet collide with the wall. He then dropped Sherlock and grabbed John, wrestling with him. I ran up to Sherlock to helped him to his feet, but the Golem's knee caught me in the stomach, right where that giant bruise had been, making me to fly backward and causing the gun to clatter out of my hand. I cursed as I landed on my ass and got up, rubbing my stomach which would no doubt bruise again after this. I tried to get my gun, but the Golem shoved Sherlock and John at me and kicked the gun away. Sherlock stood up and got into a boxing stance, which looked rather ridiculous next to the giant man. Sherlock attempted to punch Golem, but the assassin grabbed his wrist and swung his other arm onto Sherlock's shoulder, causing him to fall to the ground. Dzundza got down with him and latched his hands onto Sherlock's face yet again, leaning his entire weight on top of Sherlock so he couldn't get up. I acted on instinct and leaped onto the Golem's back, using my nails to claw at his head. He let go yelled in pain and stood, so I wrapped my legs around his waist and continued until I felt warm blood under my fingernails. He spun around, prying my legs off of him and I fell to the floor again. Just as I was getting up he kicked John in my direction, and I toppled back to the ground. We would have stood up, but Sherlock was thrown into us. He grabbed the pistol which neither John nor I had noticed, and fired two shots at the Golem. They both missed, and to our dismay, the Golem streaked across the room and through the door.

The narrator in the video said one last thing, "…long dead, exploded into supernovas."

I frowned and rubbed my stomach, watching the screen which displayed an exploding star and listening to Sherlock curse.

* * *

 **Hi. Before you continue reading, I've got some update news. I won't be able to update next week because I'm heading to Massachusetts for Christmas and New Years and I can't bring my laptop with me because it would "interfere with family time". Sorry for the bad news, and happy holidays!**


	8. Chapter 8-Jim Moriarty

**I'm** _ **back**_ **. Sorry for he week's wait, but I hope you had a happy holiday! I'm back from Massachusetts and back with another chapter. My family got me a new laptop, but I couldn't continue my chapter until I got home. Sorry for any typos that are to ensue; the keyboard format is different than what I'm used to. Also, the keys are sticking a bit. Do you know if that'll last, or if it'll wear off eventually? As always, I own nothing directly "Sherlock" related.**

 **Also, one more thing. I got the timing wrong so I'm going back and changing it. It's spring, not fall. Sorry for the inconvenience.**

 **Oh, and one more thing:**

 **SEASON FOUR! NEED I SAY MORE? READ ON, M'CHILDREN, READ ON.**

* * *

Chapter 8

Jim Moriarty

"It's a fake. It _has_ to be."

It was morning and John, Lestrade and I were standing behind Sherlock, watching him examine the _Lost Vermeer_ while Ms. Wenceslas stood off to the side, watching me skeptically. It was the hair, I didn't doubt. Or the eyes…

As an art person, I was feeling pretty lucky to be getting a close up look at such a beautiful painting, even if it was a fake. Still, despite that, I was tense. The bomber hadn't come in contact yet, as far as I knew, and I was worried. We were so close. _So_ close. There was no way the bomber would let us get this case closed without revealing a hostage of some sort. Or giving us a countdown, at least. I was surprised.

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Ms. Wenceslas explained, taking her eyes off me and glaring at Sherlock.

"It's a very _good_ fake, then," Sherlock snapped.

Ms. Wenceslas turned to Lestrade with an aggravated look on her face, "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself…and your _friends_ …out?"

I frowned and caught John's eye, exchanging a look of worry with him. Did this woman realize that someone would _die_ if she didn't cooperate? _No, probably not_ , I answered myself, thinking. We hadn't exhibited any proof so far that we were serious about the hostages.

Proof came a minute later.

The pink phone rang, and Sherlock pulled it from his pocket and switched it to speaker, saying quickly into it, "The painting is a fake!" There was ragged breathing on the other end of the line, but no verbal response. Sherlock seemed agitated, "It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed!" Just more breathing. "Oh, come on. Proving it's just a _detail_. The painting's a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer! That's why they were killed!" Still breathing. I sighed, watching Sherlock growing more and more irritated, until finally… "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

The next thing caused me to freeze in place. A boy's voice, a _child's_ voice, said just one word. "Ten…"

"Oh my God, he's counting down!" I gasped, clasping my hands to my mouth, wide eyed. Sherlock looked even closer at the painting, trying desperately to find a clue.

Lestrade looked around, shocked, "It's a kid. Oh, God, it's a _kid_!"

"What did he say?" John asked, dumbstruck.

"Ten."

"Nine…" the boy's voice said over the phone. I felt myself getting angry. I could deal with men, women, even old ladies, but _no one_ touched a kid on my watch. I whimpered, balling my hands into fists to keep myself from doing anything unadvisable like ripping up the painting or screaming.

"He's giving me time," Sherlock explained, calm as anything, scanning every inch of the painting.

"Jesus!" Lestrade swore, cupping his hands to his mouth, much like what I had done.

"The painting's a fake," Sherlock repeated, "But how can I prove it? How? _How_?"

"Eight…"

Sherlock turned to Ms. Wenceslas, "This kid will die. _Tell_ me why the painting's a fake. _Tell me_!" The woman flinched at his abrupt bluntness and opened her mouth, I assumed to explain, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop her.

"Seven…"

"No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out," Sherlock commanded, giving the painting his full attention. John walked away a few paces and I bit my lip, watching Sherlock, who was muttering to himself. "Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face…"

"Six…"

I heard John hiss, "Come _on_ ," under his breath, and I felt the same way.

"Woodbridge knew, but _how_?" Sherlock asked himself.

"Five…"

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade exclaimed worriedly.

"Sherlock!" John said urgently.

Sherlock's gaze was boring into the painting, scanning every detail, and suddenly he gasped, "Oh!"

"Have you got it!?" I asked quickly.

"Four…"

"In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!" He shoved the phone into my hands and walked back, away from the painting while speed typing something into his phone.

" _What's_ brilliant?" John asked, " _What_ is?"

Sherlock laughed and I gritted my teeth, holding out the phone to him while he chuckled, "This is beautiful! I love this!"

"Two…"

" _Sherlock_!" Lestrade and I yelled in unison, furious.

Sherlock snatched my wrist and yanked it so that he could speak into the phone. "The Van Buren Supernova!"

Everyone froze as we listened for a gunshot at the other end. Finally, the boy spoke, "Please! Is somebody there? Somebody help me!" Everyone let out a sigh of relief and I relaxed somewhat, though I was still infuriated as hell. With one second to spare might've sounded like a good thing, but this kid had been counting down to his death! He'd probably need therapy for years before he could get over this ordeal!

Sherlock took the phone from my hand, let go of my wrist, and plopped the pink phone into Lestrade's palm, saying, "There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up." Then he shot me and John a look and pointed to the painting, "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight." He showed Ms. Wenceslas the phone, which no doubt had the facts on the supernova to prove his point. Then he turned and smirked triumphantly, at her, before walking away out the door.

I followed him, checking my work phone. The bomber'd been too busy telling the kid what to say to text me, thank god. Just as I was out of the museum, my text alert went off, and I cursed, "Shit!"

"Text from our bomber friend?" Sherlock asked, turning around and holding out his hand for my phone.

"No," I said, reading the text and widening my eyes, "Some guy named…Mycroft Holmes? Is he your dad or something?"

"Brother," Sherlock frowned, snatching my phone from my hand and reading the text.

 **My patience is wearing thin.**

 **Mycroft Holmes.**

"Wait. Is he that guy who was at your flat after the bombing?" I asked, looking at the phone from next to him.

"Mm-hmm."

"What's he texting _me_ for? And more importantly, how did he get this number?"

"He's texting me through you. He'll have a file on you by now, and your phone number will be in there, as well as your address, and your parents, names, a list of the homes you stayed in, your frequent acquaintances, any misdemeanors you've ever committed, your career, your parent's careers, your-

"Holy shit!" I gasped, feeling violated and looking around suspiciously, "How is that legal?"

Sherlock smirked and handed me my phone back, "He is the most powerful man in Europe. He practically runs the British Government. Don't respond."

"I wasn't planning on it," I muttered, turning my phone off and stuffing it into my pocket.

* * *

I'd gone back to 221b, where a smiling Mrs. Hudson served us tea and biscuits. I thanked her and sat down to do more writing while Sherlock schemed about what to do next. "Well, you're gonna question Ms. Wenceslas, right?"

"Yes, in a little while, but Lestrade has to find the boy first," Sherlock explained. I nodded and Sherlock picked up his violin while John sat in his chair and read the newspaper. It was quiet for about fifteen minutes, except for Sherlock's violin, and then John broke the silence.

"Um…Ari, you know the texts from the bomber, right?"

"Of course I do," I said distractedly, biting my lip as I tried to concentrate on my work.

"Shouldn't you be in protective custody or something?"

"Hmm?"

"Well he…uh…he threatened to…" John did a sort of gesture in the air in front of him. I could sort of see where he was going, but I was still confused. Of course, Sherlock decided to clarify.

"He threatened to have sex with her, John. I'm sure you could convey that through more than halfhearted hand gestures."

I blushed deeply, "Oh… That…"

"And why do you think she's been with us for the past few days? She's in protective custody right now," Sherlock continued.

"She hasn't been the _entire_ time!" John argued.

"John, I'm _fine_ ," I cut in, going back to my book.

"This man has kidnapped kids and killed an elderly blind woman, as well as who knows how many other people! He blew up a building because she started talking about his voice!" John snapped, "What's to say he won't…I don't know…rape you or something?"

I sighed and saved my work, closing my laptop to glare at him, "Wouldn't be the first time. I know how to deal with sexual assault, John. I can get away unscathed; I've done it before."

"You were-?" John began, but his voice faded away. I sighed and was about to explain when Sherlock popped back into the conversation.

"She was assaulted; not raped."

"Nearly," I frowned, delving back into the scarring memories of my childhood, "They moved me to a new home after that. I had to deal with it a few more times later on, but that's what I get for being a genetic freak."

John looked a little horrified at my statement, and I tilted my head to one side in a questioning way. He shook his head and looked away, back at the newspaper.

"Therapy?" Sherlock asked.

"The family didn't want to pay for it."

"You got over something like that on your own?" Sherlock clarified.

I shrugged, "I had friends."

Silence again, and I sighed to myself, leaning back against the sofa. Why was I telling these two men my story? I couldn't explain it to myself, but somehow I knew that I would be friends with them for a very long time.

"Lestrade's ready for us," Sherlock said after about ten more minutes of my typing and his violin-ing (I don't know, okay?). I got up and followed Sherlock down the stairs and into (need I say it?) another cab. In minutes, we were at Scotland Yard, in Lestrade's department, sitting with Lestrade himself, Sherlock, and Ms. Wenceslas. John had disappeared after the cab, which wasn't nearly as strange as it might have been, since Sherlock told me that he was on a case and not to worry.

I was sitting on a seat, wincing and holding my stomach. There was a giant, black and purple bruise on my chest, and I was just glad that the Golem had missed my ribs. Still, whenever I used my abdomen, it hurt. I had a high pain tolerance, but this was the second time in less than a week that this had happened. The first time had been a bomb, and the second time had been a seven foot assassin. Oh, the storied I would tell.

"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock addressed the woman opposite us, dragging me out of my reverie with his baritone voice, "Bohemian stationary, an assassin names after a Prague legend, and _you_ , Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is _that_ where this leads?" She looked down silently, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "What are we looking at, Inspector?"

Lestrade thought for a second, "Well, uh, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats…"

"I didn't know _anything_ about that! _All_ those things! _Please_ believe me!" Miss Wenceslas gasped, panicky. I personally thought that she was telling the truth. She looked to terrified to be lying, in my opinion.

Sherlock gave a small nod in Lestrade's direction, proving to him and me both that she was being honest. Meanwhile, she continued reluctantly, "I just wanted my share…the thirty million. I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate; could fool anyone."

"Hm," Sherlock interrupted.

"Well, _nearly_ anyone," she corrected herself, before turning to Lestrade, "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea…a spark which _he_ blew into a flame."

"Who?" I asked.

She shook her head, "I don't know." Lestrade laughed disbelievingly, but she continued, "It's true! I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people… _his_ people. Well, there was never any real contact; just messages…whispers."

Sherlock leaned closer, "And did those whispers have a _name_."

There was a long pause, in which I inadvertently leaned closer, sitting at the edge of my seat watching her collect herself. Finally, she turned to Sherlock, "Moriarty."

I smirked, pulling my phone out, and Sherlock grinned as well, steepling his fingers under his chin. I wrote two words and pressed send.

 **Hello, Moriarty.**

* * *

Sherlock dragged me to Battersea for some reason, and we spent fifteen minutes stalking John. I had no idea why, but I enjoyed it all the more for that. As a teenager, I'd stayed with a decent family for a few years who went to a Unitarian Universalist Church, and every summer their church would go on a full congregation retreat to a beach in the U.S. I can still remember days spent on that beach in Maine; Ferry Beach. We had played manhunt like pro's there, and one time, I'd even hidden myself in an orange sweatshirt in some shadowed bushes by the pavement and listened to the rest of the group wishing I was there to help them get some guy in a tree. That was the place I went in my mind when things were stressed, or when I just felt the need to relax. I sometimes showed up at that church to mourn the loss of that family. Such a terrible car crash…

John was at the track shortly after meeting with a worker there, and he was muttering to himself, "So…uh…Andrew West got on the train somewhere…or _did_ he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he get up here…?"

The track slid sideways and John sat down thoughtfully. Sherlock, who was at my hip, startled both me and John with, "Points."

"Yes!" John exclaimed, standing in surprise and spinning around to see Sherlock and I leaning against a train car, watching.

"Knew you'd get there eventually. West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?"

"Well, _I've_ been following you only since you got here," I responded, "I suspect that Otter-Boy's been following you longer than that."

"Otter-Boy?"

"Don't act offended, it suits you," I smirked, punching Sherlock lightly in the ribs, "And besides, I believe I'm obliged to take revenge for everything you've done so far."

Sherlock thought for a second and then turned back to John, "I've been following you since the start. You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?" He turned away and jabbed me in the small of the back, "Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

"Are you assuming that I'm any good at burglary?" I snapped, pouting.

"Even Mycroft can be convinced to send me a file when I need it. Just bring up a possible family holiday and-

"That's private!" I squealed, blushing. There had been a _lot_ of strange, questionable shit in my past, ranging from drug abuse to pick-pocketing. I wasn't aware that I'd been caught, but there you go. The drugs I never wanted to do again, and the pick-pocketing was unnecessary, so I'd quit. Still, the adrenaline of doing something that I knew I shouldn't _was_ something I missed. Imagination and recollection could only get you so far.

* * *

We were able to walk two miles to get where we wanted to go, and Sherlock had to think or something, so I texted my friends while walking. I know, I know, texting while walking is "dangerous", but I was between Sherlock and John, and it was a straight sidewalk and a clear road with no signs of cars, so I was fairly sure that I wouldn't die in a freak accident.

 **Hey, guys. What'cha doin'? - AC**

 **hi, ari! XD - GK**

 **Break? - AC**

 **no – GK**

 **Then how are you texting? - AC**

 **got sick this morning so im at home watching telly – G**

 **Oh. Hope you feel better. And use proper punctuation, will you? God, I thought you had OCD! - AC**

 **i do but i now that u hate this more than me – G**

 **More than I - AC**

 **ur no fun – GK**

 **You're no fun. - AC**

 **whateverz – GK**

 **Not even going to pretend that's a word. And use periods, you hoodlum. Speaking of periods… - AC**

 **OHSHITRUBLEEDING – GK**

 **Not yet, but in three days… - AC**

 **IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRY – GK**

 **I'M- AC**

 **I'M SORRY - GK**

 **… - AC**

 **Acceptable. - A**

 **Oh thank the lord. – GK**

 **Oh, thank the Lord. - A**

 **u kno wut, im leaving. le buh bye – GK**

I sighed and shut my phone off again. "That's really what girls text about?" John asked and I smirked and nodded. "Good to know, I guess," he shrugged.

We walked fifteen more minutes in silence, and then I pulled my work phone out and checked it. That Mycroft guy hadn't done anything, but _Moriarty_ had texted back.

 **Is it bad that I feel aroused when you text my name?** **\- M**

 **Imagine what it'll be like when I hear you** ** _say_** **it. - M**

"See, this is what I mean!" John said suddenly, pointing to the phone, "He's threatening you!"

"I can see that…"

"Aren't you worried?"

"No," I answered partially truthfully. I was apprehensive at meeting this guy, but I found the texts more interesting than worrying. That wasn't to say that they weren't bothersome; they did get annoying at some points. Still, the adrenaline I got from freely texting a murderer mimicked the adrenaline I'd gotten as a kid from doing stuff I shouldn't.

Sherlock started talking, ignoring our conversation completely, "The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we _do_ still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know. I've met them," John cut in, and Sherlock grinned slightly before continuing on.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here."

We followed Sherlock into the driveway of a small house and up the side stairs. He handed me a paperclip and gestured to the door. I had it open in less than three seconds. "Hold on! What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock said quickly, and I stepped inside. Sherlock followed behind me and clambered up another set of stairs.

John came in and shut the door behind him, "Where are we?"

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe…?" I asked.

"Brother of West's fiancée."

I moved over to look out the window, and everything clicked. There was a train track right next to the roof, which was accessible from this window. One could easily drag a dead body from the window to the roof and leave it on a train bound for who knows where. It was actually rather clever.

" _He_ stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law," Sherlock explained, dropping to his knees and examining the window sill with a magnifying glass.

"Then why'd he do it?" John asked.

I walked over to the landing, hearing someone on the other side of the front door. "Sherlock…"

"Let's ask him," Sherlock smirked, straightening up.

John reached his hand into his back pocket and I saw a gun awaiting his hand. I shot Sherlock a look that blatantly said " _why don't_ I _get one_?", which he ignored. I heard the front door slam and looked around the corner again to see who I assumed was Joe Harrison, leaning his bike against the wall. When Joe saw John, he picked up his bike as though he was about to throw it and use it to block a bullet, but John raised the gun and aimed straight for his chest, saying, "Don't." Joe kept coming and John shook his head, " _Don't_." Joe sighed in what sounded like anger and stopped, lowering his bike and seeming nervous.

"C'mon, then," John commanded, gesturing with one hand to the couch. Joe shook his head reservedly and climbed up the stairs, taking a seat on the sofa.

When no one spoke, I decided to start, "We know that you killed West and we know that you left his body on the train."

Sherlock locked eyes with me for a second, and if I didn't know better I might've said that he was surprised at my actions. "It wasn't meant to… God, what's Lucy gonna say?" Joe said, rubbing his face with his hands and sinking back into the couch, "Jesus."

"Why did you kill him?" John asked.

"It was an accident!" Joe said, and Sherlock snorted from off to the side and looked away out the window. "I _swear_ it was!" Joe insisted. He seemed to be truthful, but I couldn't tell.

Sherlock apparently could, because he cut in, "But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?"

Joe got really quiet for a second, and then he began, "I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike things a great cover, right? I dunno…I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands… _serious_ people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job. I mean, usually he's so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans…beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought…well, I thought it could be worth a fortune." He paused there, thinking, before continuing, "It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew. He confronted me; told me he knew that I'd taken it. I denied it, but he didn't stop coming." He stopped and looked guiltily up at John.

"What happened?" I asked.

"It-it got rough. I shoved him, and he-and he…" his voice trailed off and he looked apologetic, "He took a fall and…uh…his skull cracked." I shook my head as he said, "I _was_ gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in here, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock interrupted. He pulled back the curtains, displaying the train tracks, "You dropped Andrew's body and let the train do the rest of the work carrying Andrew West away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

I nodded slowly, warming up to the idea. It made sense, especially when Sherlock said it. "And points," I exclaimed, remembering what Sherlock had said earlier.

"Exactly."

"D'you still have it, then?" John asked, "The memory stick?"

Joe nodded, and Sherlock smirked, "Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind." What a prat. Joe sighed miserably and got up, walking into another room to grab our prize. Sherlock walked closer to John and I followed to hear him say, "Distraction over, the game continues."

"But didn't the game seem more like a distraction to you?" I asked, gesturing in the air to nothing in particular.

Sherlock thought for a second, and then nodded slowly, though he said nothing. He seemed to be mulling it over in his head, and I grinned. The fact that he was considering my idea was already flattering.

"Well, what maybe _that's_ over, whatever it is," John exclaimed, "We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember John?" Sherlock explicated, "It's a countdown. We've only had four. Now, come on. Time to go."

I swayed a little on the spot, the exhaustion finally getting to me. I yawned, " _God_ , I need sleep. I haven't had any rest in _days_."

" _A_ day."

" _And_ a _half_ ," I added, leaning a little on Sherlock's arm. He shoved me off and I pouted, leaning on John instead. He, too, stood me up and yawned himself, obviously sharing my fatigue. Sherlock, however, didn't seem the least bit burdened by drowsiness.

When Joe came back from the room, he was holding the memory stick in his hand. He handed it quickly to Sherlock and stood there, shifting from foot to foot in worry. Without looking at him, Sherlock walked past him, and out the door. John and I looked at each other, shrugged, and followed him out the door.

* * *

I sat on the couch, wishing that Sherlock would turn that damn television off, but Sherlock was too busy yelling at it. I frowned and covered my ears, turning away, but then-

"No, no, _no_! Of _course,_ he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

I groaned and turned back to holler at Sherlock, but John, who was typing on his _inferior_ laptop, interrupted, "Knew it was dangerous."

"Hmm?" Sherlock hmphed.

"Getting you into crap telly."

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince," Sherlock chuckled

"Speaking of Connie Prince," I began, sitting up to deliver my delicate statement even more elegantly than was already foreseen… "SHUT THE _FUCK_ UP!"

Sherlock winced, "If you're tired, go home."

"Seriously?" I asked, not daring to believe him in case he was pulling a prank on me or something but he nodded and gestured to the door. I smiled, thanked him, and hurried out the door and across the street. The minute I got inside, I chucked my shoes and jacket into a corner and sat down on my bed to pull my socks off. I was just slipping my shirt over my head when I heard a gasp from the corner of my room.

I stiffened, biting my lip to keep from yelling, and turned around to see who was inside. "Oh, by all means," Jim smirked from my closet doorway, "Don't mind me."

"JIM?!" I squealed, dropping my shirt and jumping to my feet, "What the fuck are you _doing_ here!?"

He chuckled, raising his eyebrows, " _There's_ that fiery spirit I love."

"Answer me!"

"Darling, I thought you were _clever_."

My eyes widened, "You're not-! You're…you're Moriarty?"

He grinned and leaned his head back, before walking a little way closer to me, spreading his arms a little, "Surprised?"

"A little, yeah!" I gritted my teeth, "Now get the _hell_ out of my flat!"

He laughed, so hard that he actually had to sit down on my bed. I growled, backing up a little, before taking a deep breath and shutting my eyes for a moment to calm myself down. _Getting angry is only playing into his hands. Keep your cool and face him like you faced Jim before._

I raised my head and glared at him, but said nothing. Eventually, he stopped laughing and sat forward, a small smile playing along his lips. "Why. Are. You. Here."

"To _rape_ you, of course!" he sneered, and I stood back, crossing my arms and squirming slightly.

"Touch me and die, bastard."

"I was only joking, _Darling_ ," he grinned.

"Then answer me seriously."

He rolled his eyes, "Well, I _told_ you that I wanted to meet face-to-face. I'm sorry to say that you don't seem nearly as entertaining as you did on the phone."

I sighed, and went into the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, "You want some tea?"

" _There_ we go," I heard him mutter, before he got up and walked to the doorway, saying, "We can't stay long."

"What?!" I squealed, dropping the kettle that I'd been filling with water.

He checked his phone and smiled, "Time to go." He held out his hand for mine, and I grimaced at him, refusing to go with him. "Are we _really_ going to do this?" he rolled his eyes.

"You can't make me do anything, and I'm _certainly_ not going to go with you of my own free will," I snapped, turning completely to glare at him. He was no longer smiling, but frowning, as though he was disappointed. I felt a pang of annoyance at being treated like a child, but I kept my guard up.

"I'm afraid, Ari, that you are under a misconception that Jim from I.T and I are the same person," he began to explain, slowly, "We're not. Jim from I.T; the person you knew; he doesn't exist. I made him up. Jim from I.T might have tolerated your disrespect, but _I_ will not."

"I will continue to give you the respect that you _earned_ until you leave me the hell _alone_."

He grabbed my wrist and twisted it, not far enough to be painful. Yet… "Time to go!" he sang, yanking my arm with him as he walked to the door. I kicked him hard in the shin and he hissed in pain, letting go of my wrist.

"Leave on your own!"

"Come _on_ , Darling-

"Don't _call_ me that!" I yelled, and he stopped.

Then he smiled again, "I picked a good one this time, didn't I?"

I blushed and gritted my teeth again. Nothing I did caused the outcome I was hoping for; pain and suffering. "A good what?" I growled, though I knew exactly what he referring to.

"A girl, Sweetheart. I rarely pick one this… _independent_ , but now I can see what I've missing out on. This is gonna be _very_ entertaining."

The way he spoke sent a shiver down my spine, and I raised my head. He had me in a corner, because I wasn't about to get all submissive, but he was "entertained" by my dominant personality. I couldn't hurt him. All I could do was go along with it, and I sighed, hanging my head for a second. "Okay," I sighed, "Where am I supposed to be going with you? And why?"

"I'll make you a deal. If I answer, you'll come quietly," he sneered.

"No promises…"

He cocked his head to the side and then shrugged, "Okay, fine. I want you to come with me to meet Sherlock at the pool where Carl Powers died. The reason being that I need a hostage and, as Sherlock keeps commenting on, you are who he expects me to take. I've always been one to deliver."

I imitated him, tilting my head and shrugging, "Fine. I'll go with you." He started towards me, and I held up my hand, "You touch me and I will kick you where the sun don't shine." He stopped and held up his hands in surrender.

I followed him out the door.

* * *

 **I'm** _ **back**_ **. Sorry for he week's wait, but I hope you had a happy holiday! I'm back from Massachusetts and back with another chapter. My family got me a new laptop, but I couldn't continue my chapter until I got home. Sorry for any typos that are to ensue; the keyboard format is different than what I'm used to. Also, the keys are sticking a bit. Do you know if that'll last, or if it'll wear off eventually? As always, I own nothing directly "Sherlock" related. Oh, and one more thing.**

 **SEASON FOUR! NEED I SAY MORE?**


	9. Chapter 9 - The Pool

**Alright, here we go. New chapter, and we're back on track. I think I'll try to continue the story after (SEASON TWO SPOILER) Moriarty's death. I haven't seen season four yet, but maybe I'll go all the way to there. I know that I'll go through season three, but by then it won't really be a Moriarty x OC story. Just warning you. Please no season four spoilers.**

* * *

Chapter 9

The Pool

Moriarty was standing in a door off to the side of the pool, waiting for something. I'd asked him what I was supposed to do, and he just said stand there and wait. I was getting bored fast, and it was so warm in here that I was beginning to sweat.

I would occasionally glance sideways at Moriarty, who had this adorable serious expression on his face. I had to admit, the fucker was just as cute as before. I hated him, but his sex appeal had risen by, like, twenty million. What can I say; I've always had a thing for bad boys.

I yawned and wished that I'd gotten some sleep. Meeting Moriarty had woken me up like a shot of caffeine, but in this warm, humid environment, I was feeling my eyelids get droopy.

I heard a door open and the adrenaline began flowing again. I watched Moriarty as he shifted a little from his place against the wall. He was wearing a black suit, and I wondered why he would wear something so nice to a confrontation like this. Then again, Sherlock always seemed to be wearing something nice. Maybe John and I just weren't in the loop.

Sherlock's voice rang through the cavernous room, "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your puzzles; making me dance…all to distract me from _this_." Moriarty chuckled appreciatively, pulling a phone out of his pocket and holding it up to his mouth.

"Evening," he said into it, and I heard a voice I recognized repeat it outside. My breath hitched as I heard John's voice respond.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" Moriarty said, and John repeated. I peeked around the corner and Moriarty pulled me back by the shoulder, but not before I got a good look at John and Sherlock. Sherlock was wearing a simple black suit, not nearly as dapper as Moriarty's, and John was wearing a giant coat often associated with those who lived in the arctic. I wondered how he wasn't burning up, in a coat like that, but he was probably distracted by being a hostage.

I noticed Moriarty's hand was still on my shoulder, and he was playing with the strap of my shirt. I shrugged his hand off and he rolled his eyes, smirking amusedly and holding his phone up to his mouth and waited for Sherlock's response, "John. What the hell…?"

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming," Moriarty sneered, and John relayed it to Sherlock. Then Moriarty decided to have fun. Looking at me, he raised one eyebrow, saying, "Wat would you like me to make him say next?" John said the same, stopping occasionally throughout the sentence.

"Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear," Moriarty laughed, and I hit him on the arm. When John transmitted, he nearly stopped before saying the third.

"Stop it!" I hissed at Moriarty, and I heard Sherlock's baritone voice in unison with mine. Moriarty stuck out his tongue like a toddler and kept talking.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," he said, sounding cheerful. The Irish lilt in his voice made him sound so relaxed and happy, like a child. "I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart!" I cringed, glaring daggers at him, and he mouthed 's _orry'_ , though his eyes said otherwise.

"Who _are_ you?" Sherlock asked, and Moriarty poked me in the small of the back.

"What?" I asked.

"C'mon," he grinned and tried to push me out, but before he could touch me I jogged out the door and to the corner of the pool, facing Sherlock and John. Moriarty didn't follow yet, and I frowned, before he said, in a high-pitched voice that echoed off the walls, "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

I remembered that he really _had_ left his number at Bart's Funny, this all might've been resolved if we'd just called him. _No_ , I told myself, _he's too clever for that._ I made eye contact with Sherlock and called, "Are you okay?"

"Fine. I _told_ you," Sherlock exclaimed.

"Not really the time, jackass."

I heard a low whistle from behind me and Moriarty chuckled, "You too, huh. Is she always like this?"

Sherlock didn't respond, and I gritted my teeth and stepped even closer to John. Only now that he had turned could I see the bomb strapped to his chest, and the red dots trailing along his coat. I stopped moving, fearing that I might give the snipers enough reason to shoot John and blow us all up. Moriarty kept talking, this time directly to Sherlock, "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock reached his hand into his pocket and held up a pistol, pointing it at Moriarty. I kept having to remind myself not to call him Jim, because that wasn't necessarily his name, but more because calling him Jim would be like addressing the person I'd known before, which Moriarty had made up. "Both," Sherlock said, referencing Moriarty's comment.

"Jim Moriarty," the newly established Jim Moriarty sneered, "Hi!" Jim pretended to think, as though he thought he needed to explain himself. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He bit his lip and faked disappointment, "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose that _was_ rather the point." He began to walk down the deep end side of the pool, but he stopped when Sherlock kept the gun trained on him, "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He winked at me and I raised my eyebrows. _Even_ if _he's cute, he's still a creep and a murderer. And no, that's not a turn-on. Quit it!_

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy _glimpse_ of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…like you!"

"Hired killer?" I asked, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh, but it's so much _more_ than that," Moriarty pouted at me, and Sherlock spoke up.

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so," Moriarty smirked, and I couldn't help but admire his showmanship. His flair for the dramatics rivalled Sherlock's and their egos were matched.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock said softly, "Brilliant."

Moriarty smiled smugly, "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me…and no one ever will."

" _I_ did," Sherlock exclaimed.

"You've come the closest," Moriarty chuckled, "Now you're in my _way_!"

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did," Sherlock corrected.

Moriarty shrugged, "Yeah, okay, I did." He looked over at me and bit his lip again, obviously this time, before saying, "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" he finished in a high, singsong voice.

He began to stroll around the corner, "I've shown you what I can do. I cut lose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." He smiled, "Although I _have_ lived this…this little game of ours." He switched his accent to London for a second, "Playing Moriarty from I.T." Back to Irish again, "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock explained.

"That's what people _DO_!" I jumped as Moriarty's calm, Irish voice changed to a yell.

"I _will_ stop you," Sherlock insisted.

"No, you won't," Moriarty explained.

Sherlock turned to John, "You all right?"

John didn't say anything, and I shivered when I felt Moriarty pass me and reached John's side, "You can talk Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

John stayed silent, but nodded. Sherlock took one of his hands off the pistol and held up the missile plans, saying, "Take it."

"Huh?" Moriarty asked, "Oh! That!" He walked past John and took it, grinning, "The missile plans!" He kissed it, still grinning. I saw John, tense up, and I knew that he was planning something. "Boring!" Moriarty sang, shaking his head, "I could've got them anywhere."

He tossed the plans into the pool and I raised my eyebrows, surprised. In the moment of Moriarty's vulnerability, John pounced, wrapping one arm around his waist the other around his neck. "Sherlock, run!" John yelled.

Sherlock and I both stepped back in surprise, but Sherlock kept his gun leveled at Moriarty's chest. I took the opportunity to walk quickly around Moriarty and John to stand next to Sherlock. Moriarty eyed me a bit disappointed, and I turned back, "What?"

"Well, for a second there I'd hoped that this was you," he sighed, "But I guess you can't have everything."

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty," John hissed, "Than we both go up."

"Isn't he sweet?" Moriarty sneered to Sherlock, "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets." Moriarty scowled at him as John pulled him closer so that the bomb was between them, "They're so touchingly loyal. But _oops_!"

I looked over at Sherlock and my eyes widened as I saw a laser point appear on his forehead. He was looking at me in a similar fashion, and I tried to look up at my own forehead.

"You've rather shown your hand, Doctor Watson," Moriarty sneered, and I sighed, pouting at him. He ignored me for the most part, though I'm sure that he saw. "Gotcha!" Moriarty sang as John let go, stepping back and holding his hands up in surrender. Moriarty looked around, before brushing his suit off and gesturing to it, "Westwood!"

He lowered his hands and stared calmly at Sherlock, who still had the gun aimed at his head. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock. To _you_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced, "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you." He looked Sherlock over, before meeting his eyes again, "I will _burn_ the _heart_ out of you," He snarled the word heart, but he finished looking heart pangingly adorable, with the bog, innocent eyes. _STAHP IT!_

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not _quite_ true," Moriarty smiled, looking down at nothing before sighing and looking up as if shaken out of a reverie, "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now…right now?" Sherlock asked, and I took a step back.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty said, widening his eyes and opening his mouth in mock surprise, "'Cos I would be surprised, Sherlock; I really would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for long." He began to turn, and then stopped and walked up next to me, wrapping his arms around my waste, and before I could stop him, he kissed me on the cheek.

"Oi!" I yelled, squirming, "Get off, you bastard!"

He sneered and did as I asked, moving away from me and turning once more to Sherlock, "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." And he just walked out.

"Catch…you…later," Sherlock retorted, walking slowly to keep the gun trained on the exit.

"No, you won't!" I heard Moriarty sang, and then a door closed. I sighed and sat down, rubbing my face with my hand looking back up at John and Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't move for a second, checking to see whether he was coming back, I was sure. Then he dropped the pistol immediately and literally dropped to his knees in front of John and started to unfasten the vest and the bomb, saying, "All right?"

John tilted his head back and breathed heavily, and I couldn't help but imagine what this would see like to someone if they just happened to walk in on these two; one on his knees, stripping the other, while the second leaning back and practically panting.

"Are you all right?!" Sherlock asked urgently.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," John stuttered, but Sherlock didn't stop ripping off the jacket, "I'm fine. Sherlock." Sherlock stripped the jacket off John's arm and John protested, "Sh- _Sherlock_!"

Finally, Sherlock slid the bomb across the floor and away from us. Sherlock, apparently satisfied, turned to me. "And you? Are you okay?"

"Fine," I breathed, "A little shaken up, but fine.

"Good," Sherlock said, "But I _did_ warn you."

"Thanks for that, asshat," I snapped, sitting up straight and aiming a low kick at is ankle. He dodged easily and walked outside, probably to see if Moriarty was still on the premises. I heard John mutter, and I got up and walked over to him, supporting him as he swayed drunkenly. His knees buckled and I held him up to keep him from falling.

"Oh, Christ," he winced, and I sat him down against the wall. Sherlock came back in, looking jittery and tense, and he began to pace in front of John and me, scratching his head with the barrel of the gun.

"Are _you_ okay?" John asked, worried.

"Yeah, isn't that a loaded firearm you're holding?" I added, standing up.

Sherlock kept pacing and scratching his head. "Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine," he said distractedly.

It was hard for me to believe it, but I was the calmest person here. I knew that I had the least amount of experience, but when I thought about it, maybe I had the most experience in the trauma department. Both of my parents died in front of me when I was barely a teenager; I lived my entire life knowing that I wasn't wanted; I was assaulted by not only my parents, but by just about everyone I ever knew until I was 18; Id tried to hang myself twice and tried to cut my wrists on no less than three separate occasions. I was surprised as fuck that I wasn't freaking out right now, but now that I thought about it, I was built to go through these types of situations without getting too shaken up.

"That…er… _thing_ that you…er…that you did…that…um…*ahem* you offered to do," Sherlock stammered, addressing John, "That was…um…good."

"Sherlock," I chuckled, "You are _terrible_ at thanking people."

John joined me in the laughing, and I leaned back, sighing. It was good that I had him laughing, since he seemed to be the most bang out of shape out of the three of us.

"I'm glad no one saw that," he wheezed.

Sherlock stopped for a moment, lowering the gun which both put me at ease and made me uneasy, because it wasn't pointed at his head, but it _was_ pointed at me. I moved over a couple inches, eyeing the barrel of the gun nervously.

"Hmm?" Sherlock mumbled.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

I laughed, "Oh, they sure will." Sherlock shot me a look and I held my hands up in mock surrender, "I'm only joking, I swear!" Then he shrugged while John snorted with laughter. I looked toward him and hissed, "Shit."

More red dots had appeared all over John and Sherlock, and when I looked down, I saw them roaming all over my legs and chest. "Sorry, boys!" I heard Moriarty's telltale Irish lilt called, and a second later he walked in and stopped, standing smugly as though he'd accomplished something. "I'm soooooo changeable!"

He winked at me again and I tried my best to glare at him, but I was a little distracted by the constant movement of the red dots on my body. I wanted to yell at him for the boy remark, but I was afraid that if I did, I'd get shot. Sure, I was frighteningly unrattled at this situation, but that didn't mean that I was about to confront a man who was in control of my life or lack thereof at this point in time.

"It is a weakness with me, but, to be fair, it is my _only_ weakness," Moriarty chuckled. I got to my feet, expecting every minute that I might die, but nope. No shots fired.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't," Moriarty sneered at Sherlock. "I _would_ try to convince you but…" he laughed, "But everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock looked from me to John, who was still on the floor. John and I both nodded, giving him permission to do whatever it took, and he nodded back. Then he lowered the gun from Moriarty to the bomb, and my breath caught. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

Moriarty smiled, completely unperturbed, and I got the sense that he wasn't even remotely worried. I, on the other hand, had no intention of dying. John's eyes fixed on the bob and I heard his breath go ragged again. Moriarty tilted his head and stared at it too, and for the first time, I saw a shadow of concern pass over his face. Then he smiled, locking eyes with Sherlock, who narrowed his own in return.

And then the Bee Gees rang through the cavernous room.

"Stayin' alive, stayin' alive…"

Everyone was looking around, and then Moriarty sighed and rolled his eyes, "D'you mind if I get that?"

Sherlock sneered, "No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty took his phone from his pocket, sighing again, "Hello?" He looked so cute, like any normal person answering a phone call, "Yes, of _course_ it is. What do you want?"

He mouthed ' _sorry_ ' to Sherlock, who responded by mouthing ' _oh, it's fine_ '. Moriarty turned around for a second, but turned back almost immediately, furious. "SAY THAT AGAIN!" he yelled, and I jumped. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will _sss-skin_ you. Wait."

He looked up, seeming decisive, "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

Sherlock shrugged, "Oh, did you get a better offer?"

Moriarty looked down at his phone, before looking back up. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He began to walk on, holding up the phone, before remembering something and turning back. "I'm going to be borrowing her from time to time," he sneered, " _Don't_ get in the way."

I spat and he raised his eyebrows, going back to the phone, "So if you have wat you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

When he was at the door, he snapped, and the red lasers disappeared. John and I both let out sighs, while Sherlock looked around, presumably for the snipers. Seeing nothing, he lowered the gun.

"What happened there?" John asked. I nodded, curious.

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock explained, "The question is: who?"

"I guess we'll find out eventually, right?" I asked, "I mean, if he's a consulting criminal, then you'll probably have to deal with whatever the person 'has'."

Sherlock nodded appreciatively, "Sounds about right. Go home."

"What?" I asked.

"You're exhausted. You're used to staying up more than a day, and you've had a bit of a scare."

I nodded, leaning back against the wall. "Lovely deduction," I smiled, "But I don't think I'm really that ' _scared'._ Tense, sure, but _scared_?"

"Just go home," Sherlock commanded, and I nodded again, getting up, "D'you wanna catch a taxi?"

"Yes. Help John, will you?"

"I can stand fine on my own," John snapped, getting up and beginning to walk somewhat uneasily. Sherlock and I looked at each other, before following John out of the building.

* * *

When I got home, I didn't even bother undressing. I'd been awake for two days straight; I saw no reason to wait any longer. I simply pulled open the covers and snuggled into my bed, falling asleep instantly.

I didn't have any dreams that I remember until close to morning. It was the same reoccurring dream, and I was hardly surprised to see that Moriarty was the demon king. Nothing really consequential happened, but it still sucked to know that my subconscious had known that Moriarty was Jim. Then again, the subconscious typically picked up on shit like this when the person themselves didn't realize.

I felt warmer than usual, and I nestled into the blankets, enjoying the sensation. I felt light on my eyelids and I heard a chuckle as though from far away. I knew something was wrong but I couldn't quit pinpoint it. Then I remembered: this was my bed. But if this was my bed then who was laughing?

I opened my eyes and saw the last person I wanted to see in my bed. "Good morning, Darling," Moriarty smirked.

"Jim!" I yelled, and before he could do anything, I shoved him as hard as I could.

Hard enough for him to fall out of the bed.

I heard a satisfying thud, followed by a curse. I took the opportunity to check that I was still wearing clothes, which, thankfully, I was. I saw Moriarty sit up, rubbing the back of his head and wincing, "You are such a _pain_ in the _ass,_ you know that?"

"What do you expect, you creep?!" I growled, "What are you doing in my bed?!"

"Sleeping," he cringed, but I didn't believe him. At least he was still wearing clothes as well.

"Don't you have a house?!"

"I was in the area," he sneered, standing up.

"What time is it?" I asked, looking out the window.

He checked his watch, "12:26."

I groaned and got out of bed, my stomach grumbling hungrily. I heard Moriarty flop back onto my bed, and I called from over my shoulder, "There's a couch in the living room. Go sleep there."

"Mmph."

I turned back around to face the obviously tired Jim Moriarty. "And you're _not_ getting any food from me."

"Mmph!"

I sighed and looked at my counter, which was littered with Sherlock's stuff from the Carl Powers case. There were Carl's shoes in the sink, and microscopes and shit all over the table. I moved some over for a spot to eat, and vowed to get Sherlock to get his stuff out of here.

I sighed and got to work, pulling some bacon out of my fridge and heating up the stove top. Today was going to be a stay home day. I got some pancake batter out of my cupboard and mixed that together while the bacon was frying. In twenty minutes I had a decent breakfast on my counter. I went to grab myself some orange juice and when I turned back, Moriarty was sitting at my counter with a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth.

"Moriarty, I swear…"

"I haven't eaten in two days!" he whined, as I pulled my food away from him.

"Why'd you have to come _here_?" I asked in between bites of pancake.

He rummaged in his pants pocket, "I decided to return…this." He held up something leathery, and it took me a second to recognize it, but…

"What are you doing with my eyepatch?" I hissed through gritted teeth.

"Just figured I'd borrow it," he grinned, "I could reattach it for you."

"Nice try," I rolled my eyes, "But I'm keeping both eyes open."

"Well," he smiled, stealing another piece of bacon from my plate, "Are you going to stay here _all_ day?"

"I've gotta pick up my laptop from Sherlock's, but that's it."

"Sounds dreadfully boring," he said, chewing.

"Not for _me_ ," I insisted, standing up and walking to the door. "Oh, and I'm telling Sherlock that you're over here, by the way."

He raised his eyebrows, "Running to daddy now, are we?"

"Yep."

I opened the door and headed out, hoping that he'd be out of my flat when I got back. Sherlock and John were upstairs, Sherlock on the violin and John typing up the latest adventure. "Sherlock-

"He'll be gone by the time you get back."

John looked up, "Wait, you mean…"

"Thanks," I said to Sherlock, "You need to get your stuff out of my flat."

Sherlock sighed and walked over to the door. I reached under the couch and grabbed my laptop, leaving John still figuring out who was in my flat.

"Did he bother you?"

"He fucking _slept_ with me, Sherlock!" I snapped when we walked outside.

"Check for more cameras."

"And you're _okay_ with this?!"

"He won't hurt you. He only wants…a distraction. He entertained himself by watching me work. When that was over, he needed something new. At most he'll abduct you, threaten you, and harass you. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to _worry about_!?"

"You tried to kill yourself twice. Shouldn't that be more worrying?"

I groaned, "That was _ages_ ago! You're _sure_ he won't try to kill me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but said nothing. I took that to mean that he was too lazy to respond, rather than that he wasn't sure.

When I got back upstairs, Moriarty was gone, along with the rest of the bacon. I groaned and grabbed some of the stuff off the table. Sherlock did as well, and soon we had everything piled precariously in our arms. We walked out and back to 221B, where I dumped his stuff on the kitchen table and walked out, saying, "If you need me, I'll be at home, working and ignoring my friends."

"But Moriarty-

"John, I'm fine," I said, more to myself than to him. Honestly, I was surprised that Sherlock wasn't more concerned, after all that effort to keep me safe. He must've known that I was safe, if he was going to be so relaxed about the ordeal. Maybe now that he'd seen Moriarty, he could more safely make deductions.

And with that, I closed the door and walked back across the street. Finally, some time to myself. I smiled, opened my laptop, and sat down at my desk. A second later, I made the decision that I would much prefer working in my pajamas, and since I had to check for cameras anyway, why not do it now.

I found one in my closet, one in my kitchen cabinet, and one in my bookshelf in the living room. I checked the bathroom, too, but found nothing. I guess he hadn't escalated to that level of creep yet.

I changed into sweat pants and a flannel shirt and relaxed, reclining in the chair. I read through the previous chapter, before continuing the one I was working on. This continued for a few hours, and before I knew it, it was dark out. Looked across the street, through Sherlock's window, to see him still playing violin. Did that man ever stop? I was excited to go on more cases with them, like an addiction.

I winced as my stomach panged again, going into the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. There was the usual shock that I looked as strange as I did and still had friends, but that wore off and I had the sense to pull up my shirt and check my abdomen. John had taken a look at it, and said that it was just a bruise. I trusted that man, for reasons I couldn't quite explain. He just seemed like a trustworthy guy. Relatable, and definitely the more human of the two. The bruise was from my belly button onward, and it had become a yellow color around the edges. The mark on my porcelain skin made me feel far better, like I, too, was human.

I saved my work and shut down my computer, leaving it charging on the desk. It was only seven, but I wanted a break. I sat down on my couch with a leftover sandwich and the TV remote, turning on the news. Nothing that pertained to me. My book would probably be ready in a couple months if I kept writing at the pace that I was. It was due in four. That gave me time to help Sherlock out and, factoring in the time that I'd be fending off a certain consulting criminal. I was doing pretty well, considering that past week or so. I turned on Netflix and looked for a good show. Blaze had an addiction to American television, and she'd recommended a few shows to me that she thought I'd like. She's compiled a list, which consisted of a show called 'Bones', and 'Criminal Minds', and 'Gotham', and a few others. I picked Gotham and lay down with my sandwich, smiling at the DC theme and interesting format.

When the clock read 22:00, I decided it was time to sleep. I made sure my door was locked and fell asleep in my bed, hoping to God that I wouldn't wake up with Moriarty again.

* * *

I woke up on my own, thankfully. It was seven in the morning, and I was feeling miserable. I knew exactly why, even without checking, so I quickly got a pad from my bathroom and decided that I wanted chocolate. It was a Friday, so Speedy's had been open for half an hour already, so I went to get myself a scone and check on the boys. My super-duper fancy breakfast was put on hold when I ran into someone outside their door.

"Sorry," the man said, "You're…um…you work with Sherlock Holmes, right?"

I was taken aback by the inquiry, but I nodded, "Yes, occasionally. Why, are you looking for him?"

"Yes…" he began, "Is it too early to ask him about a case?"

I smiled, somewhat mischievously, and told him no, it wasn't too early. I peeked my head through the door, but Mrs. Hudson was already bustling around, so she wouldn't be disturbed by me. She beamed at me and I returned the grin. "Who's that, dear?"

"A client."

"A bit early, isn't it?"

I smirked, "I don't think so."

She laughed and I guessed that she knew what I was doing. The man looked a bit nervous, so I led him upstairs and told him to wait outside on the landing, while I told Sherlock that he had a client waiting. I imagine the poor man thought that I was going to quietly tell Sherlock that he had someone to attend to. That was not what I had in mind.

"Morning, boys!" I yelled, "Someone's here to see you!"

I heard a bang from down the hall, and I knew that Sherlock had fallen out of bed. I rolled my eyes and opened the door to the landing, telling the man to make himself comfortable while I went and got the great Sherlock Holmes out of bed. I pummeled on Sherlock's door, and a second later, he opened it. He was literally _wearing_ a _sheet_. "Go get some clothes on! You've got a client!"

He groaned, opening his mouth to argue, but his eyes shot down my form and back up to my face, and he closed the door and a second later, he was pacing the flat in front of the man. John had come downstairs, hair disheveled, obviously trying to seem as though he hadn't just been woken up by my yelling. Poorly, I should add.

"My sister-in-law has been making many suspicious purchases over the past few months…" the man began, and I scoffed at how simple this seemed. Sherlock glared at me, and his eyes blatantly said _you woke me up for_ this _?_ I shrugged and he shooed the man out.

"What was that about?" John asked.

"Some guy outside was looking for Sherlock, and I wanted an excuse to yell at you."

"Ah," John winced, walking back to the door, "I'm going to New Zealand with Sarah. I figured I needed a bit of time away to relax. I'm leaving tomorrow, so you'll have to look after him."

"Further proof that you are, in fact, a hobbit," I grinned, while Sherlock worked on something in the kitchen that was emitting a sickening stench, "Is there an instruction manual or something?"

"Just get him food twice a week and keep him occupied. He should figure the rest out on his own."

"He sounds so easy to look after. Does he need to be walked, too?"

John laughed and went back upstairs. I smiled and went back to my own flat, stopping by Speedy's to grab my chocolate filled pastry while texting El to see if she could come by. She said yes, and I knew that we were going to spend a while talking about Sherlock and John and the whole ordeal with the pool. I was totally fine with talking about it, to be honest. I mean, what's the point of going through strange and scary situations if you can't use them as a good story afterwards? She worked in the evening, so it wasn't unusual for me to ask her to come and chat with me in the mornings, since my job was typically unscheduled unless I had a book signing or an interview.

She was over in twenty minutes, and we sat down on my couch and talked. "Well," I began, "Turn's out Jim isn't a very good relationship option." I told her about the pool, and how Jim was actually Moriarty, and how I might be one of Sherlock's partners, now.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" El asked.

I shrugged, "Yeah, I'm fine. Sherlock doesn't think he's gonna kill me, and you know I can look after myself."

"Yeah, but still…" she said thoughtfully, "Are you going to give him a hard time? Moriarty, I mean."

"Of course," I smiled, "Why not?

"Well, it sounds like he enjoys it."

"Yes, but, honestly, I've always been like this. Can you see me giving up without a fight?"

"No," she sighed, "I guess not."

"Any news on your end?" I asked, interested in talking about something besides Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh!" she said excitedly, "Gem got a girlfriend!"

"Really?!" I exclaimed, smiling brightly.

"Yeah! And it seems like a serious relationship. Her name's Maeve, and she's _really_ sweet. I think that this might be the one!"

"I can't wait to meet her!"

"Apparently, Maeve was scheduling more appointments than necessary just to see Gem more often. Isn't that cute?"

"That's adorable!"

We kept talking about this 'Maeve' character, and I knew that she had to be a good person if El approved. El wasn't a very trusting person. She had to _really_ like someone to like someone.

* * *

In an hour, El left, saying that she wanted to go home and relax. Barely ten minutes after, there was a knock on my door. "It's unlocked!" I called from my living room, expecting Sherlock or maybe even John. I didn't even look up from my book until I heard an Irish lilted call from my kitchen. "Busy?"

"What do _you_ care?" I spat, sitting up to face Jim Moriarty, who was standing in my living room doorway. He sneered and walked in, sitting down on my couch. He rested his shoe-clad feet on my coffee table and I protested, "No shoes on my furniture!"

"No, I don't think so," he shook his head, leaving his feet where they were and smirking mischievously. I groaned and got up from my reading couch, which was the one that John had slept on. Jim raised his eyebrow and watched me walk into my bedroom and lock the door, so that I could do some reading without distraction. A second later, I heard Moriarty knock on my door.

"Get lost," I called.

"I'm _bored_ …!" he groaned, and I thought I heard him back his head on my door. I got up and walked through the bathroom to the kitchen, glaring at him leaning against the door.

I crossed my arms, "Why are you here?"

"For fun," he grinned, holding out his hand. I refused and he frowned, leaning his head back. "I suppose Sherlock isn't worried. He should be."

"Why?"

"You really think that I'll hesitate to hurt you? You underestimate me."

"I don't underestimate you," I raised my head slightly. "If anything, you underestimate _me_. I know how to deal with people like you. I have all my life. You'll say I'm naïve, but before you make dangerous assumptions, why don't we see who _really_ knows their strength," I challenged, changing my stance subtly in case he charged me.

"You're very prideful, aren't you," he smirked again, "I'm afraid that I can't fight you. I prefer not to get my hands dirty."

I rolled my eyes and went back into my room, no longer caring whether he followed me. I curled up on my bed, against the headboard, and continued _Pride and Prejudice_. He stood at the foot of my bed and stared at me for a little while, which was slightly discomforting. Eventually he sat down and checked his phone. "I wish I'd chosen one with a more interesting job."

I kicked him hard in the side, and he yelped in pain and surprise. I went back to my reading, and he moved in next to me and began playing with my hair, so I shoved him. "Darling, no need to get physical."

"Get away from me."

"Maybe I'll go bother one of your friends instead," he said thoughtfully, and I froze, "I saw a blonde girl leaving. Maybe I'll go get acquainted with her and leave you alone."

" _Never_ threaten my friends," I growled, putting my book down and glaring into his eyes with as much hatred as I could muster.

"Kiss me."

I stopped, caught by surprise at his sudden request. "No!" I finally exclaimed.

"Shit," he cursed, looking away.

"What?" I asked, curious.

"You're adorable when you try to be threatening."

I gritted my teeth and went back to my book, trying to ignore every time he pulled on my hair or pretended to read over my shoulder. I felt my stomach twinge and I realized that he'd wrapped his arm around my waist. I pried him off and stood up again, trying to get myself some space. He sighed and laid back on my bed, saying, "You know, this is _really_ comfortable. I think I'll use it more often."

"Like hell you will."

"Aw, come on," he pouted, "Lighten up. Have a little fun. You _do_ know what fun is, right?"

"Of _course_ I know what fun is, Moriarty. It's _you_ who seems to have it mixed up with homicide."

"Call me Jim."

"I don't think so."

He sneered, "I insist."

"When you say "I insist", do you mean that I don't have a choice?" I asked, just to clarify.

"Uh-huh."

"Fuck," I muttered, grimacing and leaning back against my bedroom wall. "Well, _Jim_ , could you quit planting cameras in my flat?"

"Say please."

"Please?"

"No."

"It's an infringement on my privacy," I sighed, "Not to mention it's illegal."

"Darling, I'm a consulting criminal. Do you really think it's being _illegal_ matters to me? Honestly, I thought you were clever."

"I have a _name_ , you know."

"Ah, yes. Ari. Does that stand for Ariana, or…?"

"Ariadne," I sighed, hating my parents more than ever, "It means 'Holy One' or something."

"I can see why," he grinned, gesturing to my hair.

"My parents had an obsession with creating an angel. Everything that makes me different is the product of that obsession." I remembered being a kid, with my parents constantly nagging me to read the bible. I'd found my way around that, but I couldn't seem to change the way everyone saw me.

* * *

 **Alright, here we go. New chapter, and we're back on track. I think I'll try to continue the story after (SEASON TWO SPOILER) Moriarty's death. I haven't seen season four yet, but maybe I'll go all the way to there. I know that I'll go through season three, but by then it won't really be a Moriarty x OC story. Just warning you. Please no season four spoilers.**


	10. Chapter 10 - Tackled

**This chapter is pretty much entirely Moriarty. I'm trying to make up for the lack of Jim in previous chappies, but he may end up acting a bit OOC. By "may", I mean that Moriarty will most certainly be seemingly out of character, but this is how I think he'd act if he didn't have to be all high and mighty and was just toying with an ordinary person, especially a love interest. Anyway, please enjoy the following:**

* * *

Chapter 10

Tackled

 **(3** **rd** **POV (Moriarty))**

Ari looked sad. Jim Moriarty couldn't tell why she looked so sad, but she did, and he didn't like it. She was supposed to be feisty and strong, not depressed. He'd thought that she'd be a challenge to break, but here she was, breaking herself _for_ him. He was getting bored again, not finding her silence amusing.

"Do something," Moriarty commanded, but she didn't seem to hear him. "Hey!" he called, not liking being ignored. She still didn't respond, and he felt himself getting annoyed. Instead of doing something he might regret, like killing her, he took out his phone and checked to see whether the Adler woman had completed the first stage of the plans. Not yet. Though, he hadn't expected seducing two of Mycroft's key workers would be a walk in the park, despite how easy she made it look.

He put his phone back and watched Ari intently, until she finally moved. He grinned at her as her mismatched eyes fixed on him, and she raised one white and gold eyebrow, "What?"

"You just froze for five minutes," Jim smirked.

She sighed and went back into her living room, curling up on the couch and turning on the TV. "What's up?" he asked, curious to see what ailed his victim.

"Shark week."

"What?"

"My monthly subscription to Blood Waterfall?"

"Still don't get it."

She rolled her eyes, "Mandatory sacrifice to Satan?"

"Um…"

"I'm on my fucking period," she sighed, curling up on the couch. He cocked his head to the side and sat down next to her. He had to admit, this had not been the response that he had expected. She continued on, "Five stages of grief. I wake up in denial. Then there's anger, which you saw. Bargaining doesn't really work, since God's pretty much the one to blame, but I still try anyway. Right now, I'm on step four: depression. After that is acceptance, but that'll be a while."

"How long am I gonna have to deal with this?"

"Three days," she whined, and he couldn't help but grin.

"Only three days?"

"Yeah, but the cramps are hell, and my emotions are like the weather on the top of a mountain. Unpredictable and inconsistent, and typically negative."

"That could be problematic," Jim muttered, more to himself than to her, "Or advantageous. Why don't I go buy you chocolate or something? Isn't that what girls like in this…situation?"

"Nah. I just wanna be left alone to work," she whined, watching the telly.

"You're not working right now," he smirked playfully.

She groaned, "Just leave. _Please_?"

He thought for a second, pouting slightly. She wasn't going to simply let him stay, that at least was obvious, but how would she react if he downright refused. Eventually she'd have to give up when it came to trying to get rid of him. She could go over to Sherlock's, though. He grimaced, knowing that she would if he got too annoying or whatever she called it. But he wasn't going to leave. Not without a fight.

"Baby, I am _not_ leaving," he finally sneered, sitting down on the couch by her feet.

"I have a _name_ , y'know, and I'd prefer it to pet names."

"I know you've got a name. You've got…what…five?"

Ari sat up, moving farther away from him, before standing up entirely and walking away to grab her laptop, and Jim turned the telly off, not liking the background noise. She didn't come back, so he got up and went into the kitchen, sitting down at the counter and watching her work. She would have to acknowledge him sooner or later. He just had to wait.

* * *

 **(1** **st** **POV (Ari))**

I sank into my world, feeling my heart beat calm and my muscles relax. This was where I belonged; at my desk. I no longer cared if Moriarty stayed. He wasn't doing anything. If I ignored him, he'd probably leave anyway, and if he did anything, I'd go to Sherlock's and work there.

 _Blanc took a deep breath, looking at the screen on her phone for a second, before puffing her cheeks and dialing the number. It barely rang once before it was picked up and answered, "Peyton! It's been a while!"_

 _Blanc bit back a retort, though not well, because it still escaped her lips, "You are the only person I know who feels obliged to remind me of my given name. I know it on my own, thank you very much. How did you come by it, again?"_

 _"_ _Birth certificate," he laughed, and Blanc didn't doubt it. She rolled her eyes as he continued, "Are we just going to chat or do you have a reason for calling me up. Don't get me wrong, I love our little talks, but I'm rather busy at the-_

 _"_ _No, you're not," Blanc corrected him, "You answered the call immediately, and you're not the kind of man to drop everything just for me. I thought you ran a business? What happened to your customers?"_

 _"_ _I hate talking to you over the phone. You always seem so much smarter when your voice is distorted. I'm coming down there to talk."_

 _"_ _No, Brae, that won't be necessary."_

 _"_ _I'm outside your door." She heard the smirk in his voice, before the door opened and Blanc saw the pale, short, dark haired menace of a man advance toward her, phone in hand. She hung up, glaring at him, aware of the gun in her belt. Had she loaded it? She sure as hell hoped so. "So much better, isn't it, talking face to face?" Brae sneered, gesturing to her._

 _"_ _Not when it's your face in question," she spat, "But I suppose it was necessary."_

 _"_ _So, why'd you call me," he asked, "_ Peyton _?"_

 _Blanc grimaced, itching to shoot this bastard, but he was important to her, deep down she knew it. She wouldn't have any real fun if it weren't for him. "I need you, Brae."_

 _He raised his eyebrows, taking a step forward, "Ooh, Peyton, I'm flattered!"_

 _"_ _To help me solve a case, asshole."_

 _He sighed, "Dear me. Just when I thought we were finally getting intimate. Maybe someday, right?" Blanc shook her head, and he continued on, "Why would Peyton Blanc, American Crime-Fighter extraordinaire, need the help of an incredibly handsome notorious criminal mastermind? Or did I just state the reason myself?"_

 _"_ _I need to know if you've orchestrated any murders lately? This one's not very elaborate, but sometimes I feel as though I'm working with a group of underqualified toddlers. You, at least, know how criminals work, narcissistic as you may be."_

 _"_ _I would be 'orchestrating' a murder right now if you hadn't scared off my clients!" Brae frowned._

 _"_ _It's because I caught you, isn't it?" Blanc grinned, and Brae growled at her. "That struck a chord," she raised an eyebrow, "Feeling touchy, are we?"_

 _He half nodded, "I thought_ I _was the flirtatious one."_

 _"_ _I'm not flirting. I'm insulting."_

 _He bit his lip, "Didn't seem that way to_ me _."_

 _"_ _I'm sure it didn't, you fucking masochist," she snapped, feeling nervous again and reaching halfway for her gun._

 _"_ _Gonna shoot me, are you?" he mocked._

 _"_ _Fuck you!"_

 _"_ _I'd much prefer if you'd do it for me?" he laughed, taking another step forward._

 _"_ _When hell freezes over."_

 _"_ _That can be arranged," he sneered, speaking in a low, gravelly voice, and without warning he wrapped his arms around her and_

I lost my train of thought there. I had no idea what it was like to be grabbed by a horny someone whom you both loved and hated, especially a criminal. My mouth dropped open and I turned around to see Moriarty, sitting on one of my stools and staring out the window at Sherlock's flat. He was the _perfect_ description of my villain, Brae, who both adored and despised my character. If he grabbed me, I could relay what needed to be written. I winced, worried about how he'd react if I let him seize me. Yeah, not a good idea. I'd have to be an idiot to consider it.

I'd always been a bit of an idiot.

I stood up, turning to Jim and leaning back against my writing desk. "Oi, Moriarty!"

He looked over at me, a playful smirk playing across his lips, "Yeah?"

I sighed, "I need you to grab me. Believe me, I wouldn't ask you to if I didn't have a reason."

He laughed, "Finally getting intimate, are we?" I stared at him, then looked back at my computer, then back to him. There was no way he could read my computer screen from all the way over there, so how could he sound just like my character? The resemblance was uncanny.

"N-no!" I gasped out after a pause that was probably too long.

"Oh really?" he asked, standing up and pushing his stool back against the counter.

"It's for my book, okay? The villain grabs her and I need to know what that'd be like!"

"That's quite a thin excuse, darling," he grinned, fidgeting with his hands and looking at me calculatingly.

"The loathe each other and he also adores her in a sadist kind of way, so I figured you'd be able to act that out," I shrugged, trying to act as though I was asking something completely normal and ordinary.

"How does she feel about him?"

"She's conflicted. She hates him visibly, but sometimes enjoys his presence. It's mutual, except he's more…forward." He had that expression again. The same expression he'd had on his face prior to asking to smell my hair. I began to feel like this wasn't the best idea, and maybe I could just ask Sherlock. "Actually!" I said anxiously, "Never mind. I'm just gonna ask Sherlock, instead." I backed up to the door, and turned around quickly to open it. Big mistake.

In a second he had his arms around me, one at my waist, holding me against him, the other at my neck, threatening to constrict my wind pipe. I gasped for air, trying to pry him from me, but he was having none of it. I could feel his breath against my left shoulder as I was nearly crushed against the wall. "Like _this_?" he asked, almost whispering, his voice identical to the way I'd described Brae's.

"Yeah, good job," I choked, "You can let go, now!"

"Oh, I don't think I want to do that. I'm fine where I am, thank you. And you're obviously very _comfortable_." I could hear the smile in his voice, his words laced with raspy sarcasm, and I couldn't help but shudder as his warm breath moved from my shoulder to my neck. I couldn't help but notice that this guy was _really_ hot. I mean, he was _literally_ hotter than a furnace. If I ever actually chose to sleep with him, I imagine I would never need a blanket again. He must've noticed that I wasn't struggling while I thought, because he kissed my neck. I yelped and went back to squirming, but he just pushed me farther against the wall. I tried to stomp on his foot, but he pulled it back, out of my range. Thank god for that, because when he was no longer perfectly balanced, I bent my knees and pushed off from the wall. He fell, but didn't let go of me, and we ended up falling onto the floor, me on top of him.

"Let go of me!" I yelled, managing with difficulty to turn myself around so that I was facing Moriarty. He just laughed, holding me tighter and kissing my nose. He rolled us over so that he was on top of me, and he sneered.

"Well now, it would appear that the tables have turned, _Ariadne_!" he said friskily, and I knit my white and gold eyebrows, propping my forearms between him and me to keep him farther away.

"Get off, Moriarty," I hissed, and he raised his dark eyebrows in a display of nonverbal sarcasm. His meaning was quite clear. He was the one calling the shots; not me. I shoved him, refusing to give up that easily, and he laughed and pinned my arms down.

"Is this what you were looking for?" Moriarty asked playfully, curling a strand of my hair around his finger. I rolled my eyes, a movement he noticed and imitated. His sweet, spicy scent was beginning to rub off on me, and I knew Sherlock would notice without fail.

I pouted, eyes trained on Moriarty's. I knew that I was short, but his being two inches taller than me felt like an insult. "This was _not_ what I was looking for, but it might still prove helpful. Will you _please_ get off now?"

Moriarty sighed, resting his forehead on mine and closing his eyes. "You smell _delicious_." I blushed, trying in vain to pry him off me. "Hold still," he groaned, and his grip slackened as he relaxed.

"Tired?" I asked, and he nodded lazily. After all of that struggling, I'd worn him out. I smiled slightly, proud of myself, and I finally wiggled out of his grip and sighed, standing up and walking to my desk.

Moriarty lay there on the floor for a little while longer, and I smiled fully, watching him lie face up, eyes closed, arms behind his head and legs bent. I had to admit, he looked adorable when he wasn't being a psychotic asshole. "Ari…come _back_ …" he whined, and I fought back a laugh. He was begging now? Hilarious.

"No, you little murderer. If you're tired, get out of the middle of the room and sleep on the couch or something."

I sat up and pouted in my direction, huge, puppy dog eyes drilling into my own. I grinned and he stood up, coming over to read over my shoulder. "You really think I'm attractive?" he asked, kneeling next to my chair.

"Blanc thinks that Brae's attractive. What I think about you doesn't factor into this," I told him flatly, trying to tune him out.

"I beg to differ," he purred, leaning against my shoulder. I shrugged him off and he glared at me sideways. I just kept writing, aware of the warmth of his legs against my own. "C'mon, let's go do something. I'm _bored_."

"I _am_ doing something, _Moriarty_ ," I chuckled, and he moaned almost silently. I turned to him slowly, "What the _hell_ was that?"

"I _love_ it when you say my name like that, _Ari_."

"That's it, I'm leaving," I sighed, standing up and closing my laptop.

"Running to Sherlock, are you?" Moriarty asked, and I could've sworn I heard some anger in his voice.

"Jealous?" I raised one eyebrow. He bit his lip, and I opened the door.

"Don't tempt me, Darling!" he called after me, and I turned around.

"Tempt you to do _what_?"

He sniggered, "Come back in and put the computer down and I'll tell you."

"You do realize that I'm not an idiot, right?" I questioned, walking again, "Don't touch anything while I'm gone!" I saw Mrs. Devyn coming down the stairs, and she peaked in through the door. Upon seeing Moriarty leaning against my counter with untidy hair and disheveled clothes, she turned on me, obviously angry.

"Another one, dear!?" she inquired, and I could smell a rant on safe sex or moral code coming like someone might smell a storm on the air. I stuttered, trying to explain that Moriarty and I weren't having sex, but he came to the door a second later, practically radiating mischief.

I gave him a warning glare, and he winked, "What's the problem?"

"The problem, young man," Mrs. Devyn started, "Is that you've been taken advantage of by this darling girl. I _told_ her; warned her; I said _Don't you go bringing men home left and right_ , and what do I get? He's the third this week, Skylar Caelum! I expected better behavior from a lady like yourself! Now get back inside and apologize to this poor young man!"

I was blushing heavily, deliberately not looking at Jim, but I could hear him suppressing a laugh. "Thank you for your concern, Ms.," Jim said, using his most innocent Irish accent, "If you'll excuse us, it seems as though we've got some sorting out to do."

I was about to speak, to contradict him, but he yanked me inside and shut the door, leaning against it and smiling ear to ear. "Why the hell-?! How does she trust you more than me?!"

"It's the accent, I bet," he laughed, "I can't believe you've gone and taken _advantage_ of me, _Caelum_! I suppose that's your surname?" I nodded, still blushing fiercely, which he noticed and pointed out shamelessly by saying, "Are you embarrassed, Ariadne Caelum, or is it something more?"

"Fuck you!"

"I'd much prefer if you'd do it for me." He was quoting my book now. I bit my lip, trying to push past him and out the door. He grabbed my waist and lifted me into the air. I yelled, hoping that Mrs. Devyn might still be in the area, but, evidently, she'd gone out, because no one came to my rescue. I was still carrying my laptop, and I clutched it to my chest, not wanting any harm to come to it. He easily pried it out of my hands and, holding me to him with one arm, placed it on the desk with his other. "Shall we continue where we left off?" he purred, resting his forehead against mine and practically falling against me. I gritted my teeth, trying to stay upright, and walked backwards into the living room, where I managed to drop him on the couch.

"For a psychopath, you sure are clingy," I coughed, "Buh bye."

Jim snatched my wrist and jerked me down next to him, and all I could think was _how the fuck does this keep happening?_ He pulled me so close that I felt like he was trying to merge with me or something, burying his face in the crook of my neck and entangling our legs. I was surprised at his behavior, as well as his persistence, which was actually rather flattering. He mumbled something incoherently, probably something along the lines of "stay, God damn it". His warm breath tickled the nape of my neck, and whenever he spoke, his teeth brushed my skin. _However annoying he might be_ , I told myself, _he's still adorable._

"Off!" I commanded anyway, to which he groaned and moved his head up, so that I was forced to glare into what had to be by far the most enchanting puppy eyes I'd ever had the misfortune of seeing. He knew it to, because he added a tiny, quivering pout to his chin and nuzzled my nose.

I sighed, relaxing, and he grinned, "Finally, you little firecracker. I'm not going to rape you or anything!"

"I feel _so_ much _better_ ," I said sarcastically, and he laughed and kissed my cheek. "Okay, stop," I ordered him, and his frowned, apparently not used to my persistence against his advances.

"Do you _really_ want me to stop?" he asked.

"Would I be telling you to if I didn't?"

"Yeah," he thought, "I think you would. You seem like that type of person. Too much pride."

"Like you can talk, narcissist." He let go, and I fell off the couch with a shout. He sat up, cackling at my pain. "You jerk!" I spat, sitting up angrily.

"I thought you wanted me to stop!" he said through his laughter, neglecting to help me up.

The rest of the day was spent with me writing, Moriarty making innuendos and not letting me leave, and the occasional text from a friend. I don't know why I didn't just grab a knife and make him let me leave, except that I was almost positive that Moriarty would know how to counter an attack like that. He was a crime lord, after all. I imagined that he wouldn't let himself be outsmarted that easily.

It was dark out when I finally decided to cut my writing short and go to sleep. Moriarty, who was at my hip, reading, made note of my pause. "Shall we?" he asked, standing up and walking to my bedroom doorway, as though waiting for me.

" _We_?" I asked skeptically, " _I_ am sleeping in _my_ bed, and _you_ are not!"

He plopped down on the unmade covers, taking his suit jacket off for the first time that day. He undid his tie and through them to the foot of my bed, dropping his shoes over the side and worming his way under my covers. "Nope," was all he said, shutting his eyes, "C'mon." When I didn't move, he opened his eyes again to glare at me, "I said _come on_! I'm too tired to assault you, so you're safe!"

I scoffed, "Yeah, _thanks_ for the insurance! I feel _really_ safe, knowing that you're _too tired_ to assault me! Sure, I'll come and sleep with you!"

"Good," he grinned, moving over, and patting the space next to me. When I still didn't move, he sat up, "You _know_ you want to!"

"I'll sleep on the couch," I sighed, walking back into the living room and grabbing myself a blanket and pillow. I didn't hear him get up, and, knowing that he had resigned to let me sleep peacefully, I passed out, glad for the opportunity for some quiet.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, there was no sign of Moriarty. Granted, I didn't do much looking for him. I couldn't hear him, though, and I was sure that he would've woken up earlier than me. My point was proven when my eyes fell on a box of chocolates and a note. I stared at in incredulously, as though it were a bomb or something. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I reached out to grab the note.

 **Morning, Darling,**

 **I got you this because, apparently, this is what you girls like when you're…you know. Anyway, I'll probably be back in a bit, so don't worry, I haven't abandoned you. Sherlock texted you, by the way. I told him to Fuck Off. From you, of course. Have a lovely morning, and don't bother running, because I set up more cameras. Text me if there's any trouble, and be here when I get back.**

 **Jim xoxo**

 **P.S.**

 **Your bed is surprisingly comfortable, but I'd prefer if we shared it.**

I couldn't believe that Jim had actually gotten me chocolate. More than that, I couldn't believe that he'd texted Sherlock on my phone. I was almost positive that he'd spiked the food somehow, but the box was unopened and the plastic wrapping was almost untouched. I chose not to open it anyway, and instead went on a camera hunt, before disposing of the gadgets out the window and turning on the telly to watch Gotham again.

After an episode and a half or so, I heard the door open and the call of, "Honey! I'm home!" I rolled my eyes and lay back, re-relaxing and listening to his footprints approach my living room.

"Thanks for the chocolate," I said robotically, not looking up from the telly.

"You haven't even touched it!" Jim pouted indignantly when he came around the corner, "I thought girls _liked_ gentlemen!"

"I didn't touch it because I don't trust you. Plus, leaving a letter asking me to sleep with you is _not_ considered 'gentlemanly'."

"You're so _picky_!" he frowned, sitting down next to me, pulling my feet onto his lap. He was wearing a new suit, I noted. Navy blue, this time.

I sighed, "Am I gonna have to teach you how to be polite, or can you figure it out yourself?"

He grinned, "teach me? Good luck…" After about five more minutes of silence, he sighed, "Are you _really_ not going to eat that chocolate, because I got it especially for you."

"I told you: I don't trust you."

"What if I eat a piece first, huh?"

I sighed, "Alright, go ahead."

He pulled the package open and popped a chocolate into his mouth, handing me the box and swallowing. I frowned, but took one anyway, taking a bite out of it. It was like one of those valentine boxes, I surmised. This one was caramel. I grinned slightly, and he took another one. We didn't talk much for the next hour or so, just sitting back and watching, and eating chocolate. I would've kept the sweet all to myself, but he'd gotten it for me and I was afraid of what he'd do if I refused to share. I didn't even know why I was letting him stay, besides that I didn't have the energy to get rid of him, and he wasn't doing anything disruptive at that point, despite the large display of energy from last night. He was displaying a level of calm that I hadn't expected him to possess, as he occasionally shifted his position. I yawned and tried to ignore the pain in my abdomen, which was only added to by the bruise. I wished for the millionth time that I was a male, but alas, t'was not to be.

"So, you like American television?" Jim asked, and I raised my head.

"My friend does and she recommends shows to me that she likes. She's almost always right when it comes to this stuff, and I've learned to just do as she says."

"Ah."

Silence again, and I looked over at him. He was watching me, and I squirmed a little. I was already uncomfortable, and now this? Not helpful…

"So…orchestrate any crimes, lately?" I asked, somewhat awkwardly.

He laughed, "Yeah, I'm in the middle of setting one up right now, actually."

"Really? What?"

"Can't say," he sneered, "It'd ruin the surprise."

I pouted and looked back at the TV, watching Detective Gordon trying to connect to little Bruce Wayne. I felt Jim's hand spider across my thigh, causing me to shiver and move my leg away. He scooted over to wrap his arm around my waist, " _God_ , I'm _tired_." _Did he sleep at all last night?_ I asked myself, but then I realized that he must've spent last night planning his new crime. When else would he have done it?

" _Off_ …" I threatened, not feeling very sympathetic.

" _No_ …" Jim grinned, pulling me a little closer so that he could rest his head on mine. I shoved him off, standing up to go get myself some food or something. Anything to avoid being cuddled by the consulting criminal. Again. He sighed, "Fine then. Be that way." I turned back and he was standing up.

"Are you leaving?" I asked, hopeful.

"Yeah. You're no fun."

"My apologies," I grinned sarcastically, and I saw the edges of his mouth curl upward only slightly, like he was trying not to smile.

I grabbed my laptop as soon as he walked out, turning the TV off and lying on my belly lengthwise on the couch, deciding to write away my pain by killing someone. In my story, of course. I spent about fifteen minutes in peace, and the I heard the door open. "You're back already?" I called, gaining only a small laugh in replication. I tried to quickly finish up the paragraph before turning over. Jim was quicker than I.

I heard quick footsteps and then a Jim-sized weight on my back. I yelped as his two arms appeared by my head, and looking back I could see one leg outside of mine and the other in between. He had jumped over the side of the couch and onto me, which made me feel both anxious and rather flattered. I felt his breath on my left ear, and I shifted my weight to my right side to look up at him. He was almost in a planking position, grinning at his achievement. "What the _hell_ are you doing!?" I asked, the words coming out more distressed than I had meant.

Jim's left arm stayed, but I felt his right move behind me as he slipped down in front of me, pinning me between him and the back of the couch. I would've shoved him, except that he asshole had me mesmerized, curious to see what he would do next.

"Jim, I'm not in the mood," I warned, closing my laptop to ensure that no keys were pressed and none of my work was accidently deleted.

He pouted, big brown, almost black eyes boring into my own. I shook my head and he pushed closer, so that we were nose to nose. He seemed like a puppy, nuzzling my nose with his own. I pushed him back a little and he pulled me closer and kissed the tip of my nose, tangling his legs with my own. I groaned, " _Jim_!"

"What?" he asked, straight-faced and innocent. I rolled my eyes as he cocked his head to the side and yawned, beginning to rub by back. I hated to admit it, but it felt _so_ _good_ , especially with the cramping, which was agonizing as fuck. He knew I liked it, too, because he grinned proudly and pushed his head past mine to whisper in my ear, "Am I being gentlemanly yet?"

I sighed, "Nope. I was in the middle of _working_!"

"You like it. Can you just once relax and let me do something sweet?" he purred, before biting my earlobe. I squealed, surprised, and tried to shove him off to no avail. He chuckled darkly, kissing my neck, before pulling back to kiss my nose again. I had no idea why he did that, but he did, and I couldn't complain. At least, I couldn't complain honestly.

"Jim, I was busy!"

"And I was bored, sweetheart, and your reactions are so deliciously entertaining!"

"Moriarty, I'm writing a _novel_. If I'm going to meet my deadline, I'm going to have to crank it out. Now, normally I do, but ever since you, Sherlock, and John came into my life, I've had to postpone my wok quite a lot. I'm _not_ in a good mood today, and if you don't let go of me _right now_ , I'll knee you where the sun don't shine. Now get _off_!"

Jim didn't move for a second, surveying my eyes as though looking for a sign of weakness. Finding none, he sighed and sat up, giving me space to grab my laptop and work. I reopened it, but a thought struck me. I hadn't checked my email in a while, and I had been informed previously that I would be called for an interview for some time in April, which was pretty much now. I opened the tab and grinned. I had gotten the email, which said that the interview would be taking place in mid-April, the 20th, to be exact. I wasn't obsessed with the news, nor was I keen on being interviewed, but it was a good way to get my book sold when it came out, and without it, I wouldn't have nearly as many readers.

"What's that?" Jim asked, resting his chin on my shoulder to watch.

"An email."

"Well I know _that_!" he frowned indignantly, "What's it _about_?"

"It's an interview. April 20th. For some newspaper. CAM."

"Ah. D'you know who runs the newspaper?" Jim asked casually.

"No idea," I shrugged, dislodging his head from my shoulder, "The only reason I deal with this at all is for publicity. You know, so my book sells. Speaking of which…" I switched gears, going back to my writing, sinking into the clickety-clack of my keyboard.

After about twenty minutes of no interruption, Moriarty got up and walked away, with no explanation. I ignored him, and only looked up when I heard the door open. "Are you going?" I called.

"Do you want me to stay?" he called back.

"No, not really. I think I'll head out, too. John's heading to New Zealand, and I wanted to say good bye."

"Want me to walk you over?" he asked hopefully as I closed my laptop for the time being and plodded into the kitchen and to the door.

"Nope. Even if I did, I don't think Sherlock'll let you within ten feet of his flat."

He sighed and opened the door for me. I smiled, my bright, mismatched eyes meeting his dark, demonic ones, before I walked through the doorway and hopped down the stairs, exhaling when my cold skin hit the calm, spring air.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed the entirely Moriarty chapter. Thanks for reading, or skimming, or visiting the page at all, I guess, and don't be a stranger. Feedback is accepted and encouraged, so please tell me what you think. Thanks!**


	11. Chapter 11 - Interview

**Sorry if this chapter doesn't have enough subject matter. I'm going through a spell of writer's block, and basically just writing what I can to get myself where I need to go for the action and whatnot. New side of Moriarty that I haven't really displayed, and more depressed Ari at times. Nothing more to say, so READ ON M' LOVELIES!**

* * *

Chapter 11

Interview

I watched John pack for New Zealand, hurriedly stuffing clothes into a suitcase. He'd been doing this for five minutes now, while we chatted. It was apparent that he hadn't packed even _close_ to enough clothing and hair product and whatnot for two weeks out of the country. I told him about how I had an interview on the 20th, and he told me about what he was planning to do when he got to Australia. Neither one of us cared even remotely about what we were being told, and we relapsed into silence.

"I think I hear Sherlock," John said as the door closed downstairs, "He might have a client. You should go see."

I nodded and stood up, knowing that he just wanted to get rid of me so that it was less awkward for him to pack his underwear or whatever. I headed down the stairs from John's room to find Sherlock, utterly alone, but carrying a-

"Is that a sword?" I asked, eyeing the weapon warily. Sherlock didn't respond, but instead crossed the room, taking the shortcut over the table.

"What are you doing here?"

"Saying goodbye to John."

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked hopefully, "Permanently?"

"John is, Sherlock," I explained.

"How's _Jim_?" Sherlock inquired, a half sneer marring his features as he placed the sword-y object on the mantle and stood back to inspect it.

"He's annoying as hell," I frowned, "And clingy! _Really_ clingy!"

"But you still like him."

I shook my head, though I knew that Sherlock was at least partially right. I _did_ think that Jim Moriarty was cute, and occasionally he was sweet, but I also thought that he was dangerous and untrustworthy and perfectly capable of murder. I was surprised that Sherlock, who had been obsessed with my safety for the longest time, had given up the minute I'd actually had relations with the very same psychopath that he'd been protecting me from. I couldn't complain, though. Dealing with Moriarty, though irritating, was good practice for me, and quite entertaining and unusual. I mean, it wasn't _every_ day that a consulting criminal came to your flat to cuddle and cause a commotion.

"He's still an infuriating asshole," I explained, searching mentally for a change of subject. Finally, I found what I sought, and, smiling, told him, "I've got an interview planned for the Friday after next."

"Unnecessary information. Tedious, isn't it? Dealing with reporters?"

"Well, yeah, but if my book's gonna sell, I need the advertising."

Awkward silence again, and I sat down on the couch, watching Sherlock mess around with the sword for a little while before taking it down and throwing it onto the pile of papers in the corner. "He bought you chocolate, though," Sherlock grinned, "Isn't that romantic?"

It took me a second to realize what he was talking about, and when I did, I shook my head, flabbergasted. "I guess that was a bit sweet," I said, slowly, "But he's…well…he's a murderer, for one thing. And then there's the inability to go an hour with nothing to do. Not to mention he's clever, and attractive! He's like a fucking _Disney_ villain!"

"Aren't 'clever' and 'attractive' good attributes when searching for a possible mate?" Sherlock asked, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

I blushed, "It's not that simple, Sherlock! He's a psychopath!"

"Yes, because danger has ever stopped you before."

"You don't know me as well as you think," I frowned, searching for excuses.

"I will."

I had no idea how to respond to that, nor how to react. "You mean…" I said thoughtfully, each word standing in the air before it was shoved aside by the next one, "I can help you solve your cases? Really? I kind of assumed you'd want to get rid of me at this point."

"Of course, you did. It's what you're used to."

I paused, letting the entirety of those two sentences melt into my brain. He was right. As usual, Sherlock was right. That didn't make it any less offensive, but arguing with Holmes wasn't something that I intended to do, what with his ego and unnerving argumentative skills. I smiled softly, nodding at him, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, Sherlock. I imagine you would feel the same if you grew up the way that I did."

"And how was that?" I heard from the stairs, and, turning around, I saw John, standing with his bulky suitcase.

"You know about the system."

"You could've been adopted," he shrugged.

I opened my mouth to argue, but Sherlock beat me to it. "No, she couldn't have, John. She was a teenager. No one wants a teenager."

I sighed, and, feeling that it was my duty to explain, elaborated. "I actually believed it, you know. In the beginning, I had hope. Every new household, it got harder and harder to think 'happy thoughts'. Honestly, I'm ashamed at how easily I gave up."

"You accepted reality," Sherlock said, using what almost seemed like a kind tone, "It was the only logical decision."

I grinned, "Okay, Spock."

John laughed, but Sherlock didn't appear to understand the reference. I rolled my eyes, "Jim should be busy, so maybe I can go get some work done. See ya in two weeks, John," I waved, before turning to Sherlock, "Text me if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

"Well it would be hazardous for the Great Sherlock Holmes to be caught grocery shopping, now wouldn't it?"

* * *

The next couple weeks went by at a relaxed, almost hushed pace. Jim didn't bother me much, only popping by once to propose a date, which I denied. Honestly, that guy was a bit too forward for me. Maybe when he learned some manners…

The morning of the interview went the same way that every other morning did for me. I got up, got dressed, brushed my teeth and finger-combed my hair because I was too lazy to brush it, went over to Speedy's for my breakfast, before plopping myself down in front of my laptop and working with zero distractions. I got a good couple chapters done that morning, being more tuned in than usual, and I only remembered the interview when I saw a car pull over next to my flat and the door slammed shut down stairs.

I heard a knock on the door a second later and I sat up, saving my work and calling, "The doors unlocked." Immediately after saying that, I felt like kicking myself for sounding rude, but too late now. I just hoped that the reporter wasn't a complete asshole, so that it would be easy not to be disrespectful in the future.

The door opened and I turned to say hi, only to be stopped in my tracks by the giant in my doorway. I was looking up from my seat at what seemed to be a never-ending human. Seriously, this guy was in the 6'4'', 6'5'' range, making me feel even shorter than normal. I stood up, examining the rest of the man. He had long, lanky limbs, and cold, dead eyes, preserved by thin spectacles. As I scanned him, he seemed to scan me, and I was beginning to fear that the entire interview would be spent in calculating silence when he spoke, "You look…delectable." His accent was Dutch, emphasizing the t's and c's. _Not the adjective I would've used,_ I thought, confused at his choice of words, _is this guy gonna be one of those creeps? Moriarty was enough, thanks_.

"Equinox," I smiled, extending my hand to shake.

He refused, leaving his hands in their designated pockets, though he did introduce himself. "Charles Magnussen," he explicated, now surveying my flat with a look of genuine interest. I let my hand float there, unshaken, for a few seconds more, before retracting it awkwardly and stuffing it into my jean pocket, looking around for a new topic. His name seemed familiar, but I couldn't think where from.

"I thought that you owned the newspaper in question, Mr. Magnussen. Why're you the one interviewing me?" I asked, my mind finding what I'd seen as amiss.

His eyes latched onto my own, a tiny smirk turning up the sides of his mouth. "I do," he said, "But I love your books and the rest of my people are busy."

I shrugged, "Thanks. So…um…tea?"

"Yes." _What, no please_? I thought, _No thanks? Jesus, and I couldn't remember why I didn't like reporters. Assholes, the whole lot of 'em._

I put the kettle on and stove and sat down at my counter, waiting. Charles sat down as well, and stared at me for a moment, before taking out a pencil and a piece of paper. _Old fashioned_ , I thought, _interesting_. "I think we'll start with a little back story," Charles grinned, "You know, how you got to where you are now?"

I nodded, "Okay."

"So, how long have you lived in London?" he asked.

"Since I was thirteen, so twelve years."

"Where did you live before London?"

I frowned, "Um…Dartmoor. Small town. Not much happened down there. Mainly just the occasional local gossip or wedding."

"Then how did you grow up to write such intriguing books if your childhood was as dull as you say it was."

"I said the town was dull; not my childhood. I had a few friends, and we had a lot of room to explore. The place was right next to a government facility, and we used to pretend all sorts of stuff, or tell stories about what happened in there. Until my friend, Henry, lost his dad."

"Such a tragedy at such a young age."

"Not for me, but for Henry, yeah. He sort of went mad after that. I haven't seen him since the system, but he was in extensive therapy when I left."

"Hmm," Charles said, scribbling something down, "And you mentioned the foster system."

"Yep."

"Can you tell me about that?"

"Is it relevant?"

"Well, not exactly, but-"

"Then no, I would prefer not to."

He looked up from his paper, straight into my eyes. His expression wasn't angry, really. More calculating. I squirmed a little under his gaze but didn't look away. Finally, he smiled, "Yes, of course. Why don't you tell me about where you got your ideas, then?"

I brightened considerably, "What d'you wanna know?"

"Maybe tell me why you made your character American?"

I shrugged, "It just came to me one day, I guess, that I'd written her to be less polite. More straight forward, like a stereotypical American. I suppose I always saw her as apart from the rest, and even though she's not very different from everyone, I needed something to complete her story. Coming from another place. She was banished when she was a little younger for dismantling part of the American government."

"How…imaginative."

"Thanks, I guess, but that _is_ my job."

"Yes, I suppose so," Charles chuckled, "Now, I heard that you were helping Sherlock Holmes, the hat detective. What is he like?"

I sighed, thinking. I didn't want to hurt Sherlock at all, so I decided to go with the least offensive yet still accurate way to describe him. "He's utterly brilliant," I said, trying to smile, "Amazing. Sometimes he doesn't even seem human. And his partner, John Watson, is one of the nicest people I've ever met. Really, it's a pleasure to be allowed to work with them, despite the suspicion I have that Sherlock may not like me all that much. I guess you could say that I'm lucky that bomber blew up the flat next door, or I may never have met John and Sherlock."

Charles sneered, "So they're close, are they? Romantically?"

I scoffed, "Not at all. If you're looking for some sort of closet romance, I wouldn't go after Sherlock Holmes."

"And what about you. Are you romantically attached to anyone at the moment?"

I immediately thought of Moriarty, a slight blush rising to my cheeks. I shook my head, "Not right now, no."

"Mm-hmm," Charles hummed, scribbling vigorously on the piece of paper. "And one last topic, I think," he sneered, looking up, "Possibly the most popular character you've written, with the exception of Blanc herself. Where did you get the idea for Brae?"

I blushed again, "Um…I guess I wanted a different villain than what I've seen so far. I wanted a cooperative one, untouched by everything. Well, until Blanc came along."

"And the romance between the heroine and the villain…does that, by any chance, reflect upon your own life?"

I froze. How could he know? The kettle behind me began to squeal, and I got up and turned the stove off, making two cups of tea quickly and handing one to Charles. "No," I finally said, trying my best to make it seem honest, "I don't think that anyone like Brae exists, anyway. At least, for England's sake, I hope not."

"I know quite a few young people who disagree with that last statement."

I laughed awkwardly, "I _did_ write him to be alluringly dark. I've always found that romanticizing a villain always ties him closer to the story and the audience. From what I hear, I did something right."

The rest of the interview was much more textbook. Mr. Magnussen asked all the normal questions from that point on, and my romantic life wasn't brought up again. Finally, he left, paper covered in notes and pencil worn down quite a bit. I wasn't used to hour long interrogations, and in the future, I'd certainly be asking to avoid them. Right now, I just needed some time to myself.

My work phone buzzed and I groaned, picking it up and checking it.

 **Get food if convenient. - SH**

I was just typing in "not convenient" when another text came in. I knew what was coming anyway, but I still checked.

 **If inconvenient, get food anyway. – SH**

I groaned again. This was the asshole I'd just described as 'brilliant' and 'incredible'. Sherlock used that phrase so often, it made me want to crack my phone. He knew it, too, which was why he did it. His lack of creativity drove me mad.

 **Busy. – AC**

 **Busy sitting around doing nothing? – SH**

 **Asshat. – AC**

 **I want a sandwich and Mrs. Hudson's out. – SH**

 **Make it yourself! – AC**

 **I can't without possibly giving myself brain cancer and burning away my throat. – SH**

 **What the hell are you doing over there? – AC**

 **Come and see. – SH**

I rolled my eyes and got up, not bothering to text back. My silence was enough to alert him to my decision. I quickly made a haphazard peanut butter and jelly sandwich and slipped my sock-clad feet into my slippers, not caring to bend down and tie any laces or zip any zippers. Yes, I was lazy, but slippers were comfortable, so I didn't much care. I trudged across the street and headed straight up, not ringing the doorbell because Mrs. Hudson was out and Sherlock never answered the door. When I walked in, Sherlock was lying on the couch in slacks, a purple shirt and his blue robe, looking up at the ceiling. I stood there for a second, staring at him, before turning around to go.

"At least give me the food," Sherlock's baritone voice called behind me.

I ground my teeth and handed over the sandwich. "You know, before you, I actually thought I was smart," I growled, sitting down on the coffee table and glaring at him. He grinned lopsidedly and took a bite out of the bread.

"This is _terrible_ ," he spat, staring at the bread with a look of disdain.

"It's grape jelly, bitch," I sneered, glad to have gotten him back for the trickery, "And the bread's probably stale. That's what you get for annoying me after an interrogation."

"Interview."

"Same thing."

He rolled his eyes and put the crumby abomination of a sandwich down, "You were asked a question about me, weren't you?"

"How did you-

"Please. You're a mystery writer, I'm a consulting detective, and we've been seen together by many people. There was next to no chance that it wouldn't come up. How did you describe me?"

"I told him you were annoying as hell and extremely infuriating."

"You told him I was incredible didn't you."

"I'm regretting it now."

He smirked and leaned back, "Have you seen any cigarettes?"

I shook my head, "I thought you said you didn't smoke!" He pouted and I laughed, running a hand through my hair absent mindedly. "Seriously, I thought you'd have more willpower."

He just shook his head, picking up one of his shoes and looking inside, "John cleaned out the normal places."

"Yeah…I don't want anything to do with this. I'm heading home."

"Moriarty'll be waiting for you."

I rolled my eyes, "Shit."

* * *

"Jim, get out of my flat!" I yelled the minute I opened my door. I heard a laugh from my bedroom and I opened the door to find Moriarty sitting on my bed, dark eyes glued to my laptop.

"Lovely to see you, too," he said in his Irish lilt, too engrossed in whatever he was doing to spare me a look.

"Get off my laptop!" I yelped, rushing over to him and wrestling my baby from his grasp.

"I missed you, too," he giggled, grabbing my arm.

"I just had to deal with a reporter _and_ Sherlock Holmes. Don't make me yell at _you,_ too."

Moriarty's eyes went dark and he twisted my wrist into a painful position. I hissed and tried to wrench my arm from his grip, but he had better leverage. "Jesus," I winced, "Get off!"

"Show some respect," he growled, "Say…please."

"Alright, already!" I said through clenched teeth, "Please let go!"

Moriarty let go of my wrist and reclined back on my bed with a deep sigh, his head crashing onto my pillow with a distinct 'floomph'. I rubbed my wrist a little and took my laptop into the other room, leaving him with his hands behind his head, staring up at my cream-colored ceiling. After a second, he got up and walked over to me, eyes unfocused. He rested his chin on my shoulder and pressed his face up against mine from behind. I could feel stubble against my cheek and I shrugged him off, nudging him away with the side of my head.

"You are _really_ comfortable."

"Good to know."

I walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch, turning on the T.V. "Wanna watch Bones?"

"Don't you have writing to do?" he grinned cheekily.

"I'm ahead of schedule."

"You don't seem anywhere near an ending point."

"I'm ending it at a cliffhanger. Did you read everything?"

"Yep."

I frowned, "The reason it's not published yet is because it's not ready to read. I've gotta send in to an editor before anyone else reads it. You could _wait_ , you know, like everyone else."

"Baby, I'm not like everyone else. Besides, what's the point in having the opportunity to do something you shouldn't and missing it because it's the right thing?"

"Common decency. Societal expectations. Morals."

"You don't _actually_ believe that, do you?"

I laughed at the incredulous look on his face, as though I was a slow, troubled child and he was the teacher, trying to educate me in the least harmful way possible. "I think rules are more like guidelines. You can stray from them, but going against them entirely, however fun, isn't a good idea. That's why any wrongdoing you catch me in always has a lawful cause in mind. Like trespassing on somebody's premises to catch a murderer."

"I think rules were made to give rulebreakers a job," Moriarty chuckled, "Why give us laws when there's undoubtedly going to be people who break said laws. They're practically _asking_ for me."

"That would mean that the only way to eliminate criminals is to eliminate laws."

Jim winced, "Bad for business, though. I need the laws, or I don't get customers."

"Same. No law equals no crime-fighting books. Sales go down. Living on the streets. Though, no laws also means I could kill Mrs. Devyn, the tax collectors, and anyone else who insists upon payment. Money wouldn't be necessary." I looked up from my hands, which were curled into fists on my legs. Moriarty's black eyes were locked on mine, star struck, and his face was frozen in a look of pure astonishment. "What?"

"I love you _so_ much right now," he gasped, sitting down next to me and leaning back. After a few seconds of silence, (because I had no idea how to respond to that) he smiled. "Bones sounds good."

I hadn't watched it in a while so I didn't remember much, and since it was Moriarty's first time, I decided to start over. By the first scene, we were on opposite sides of the couch. It turned out that I remembered quite a lot. Why were we on opposite sides of the couch, you ask? Because the one thing I'd forgotten was how much sex was involved. Yeah, I know, _really_ mature, but literally every time sex was mentioned (which was a _lot_ ), I felt Moriarty's eyes trained on me. Ever had a cute murderer and possible rapist sitting on the couch with you, watching what felt like censored porn with the occasional science interruption? No, of course you haven't, because you're a normal person.

Finally, episode one was over, and I got up to get food. Stayin' Alive went off in the other room, and I smiled when I heard Jim's agitated sigh before he answered it. It was the usual yes, no, of course, followed by one of two options. Either the person on the other end had good news or bad news. Good news might result in a laugh, or at least a 'congratulations'. This was not good news.

"You WHAT!" he yelled, and I rolled my eyes. This had happened a few times before, and it got less and less intimidating as time went on. Honestly, watching the 'most dangerous man in London' throw a hissy fit over…say…a missed assassination wasn't always as scary as it sounds. Moriarty knew I found it entertaining, too, and had decided to accept it as fact rather than get annoyed. His threats had gotten more and more ridiculously elaborate. For instance:

"If you do this one more time, I will rip out your kids' intestines, tie them around your throat, tie the other end to a helicopter propeller, fly you into a nuclear plant, then take what's left of you and force feed it to your husband, before putting his limbs through a blender and leaving the rest to your dogs," was heard in the other room, and, though this was a legitimate threat, I found it hilarious. Jim peaked around the corner, sneering as he listened to the client or henchperson or whoever it was react. "Alright," he finally said, hanging up and stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

"That was a good one," I chuckled, searching the kitchen for a suitable snack.

"When did you become so…passive?" Jim asked from the doorway, "Because, however much I love this, you're getting boring."

I knew what he meant. Mentally I'd accepted him as a fact of life. He wasn't going away, I knew that. I still trusted him about as far as I could throw him, but he hadn't done anything really bad recently, and I was beginning to think that he was just going to be a normal person around me from now on. If I told him, he would no doubt attempt to disprove it in any way possible, so I hadn't voiced my feelings. The phone went off again, and he answered it, rolling his eyes, "What now?"

A pause as Moriarty's smile melted into rage. "You _what_?" His tone was icy, murderous, and I took a step back, actually scared now. He didn't notice, "I told you not to, and you did?! It was just a button, Daniels, and you still messed up!" A pause ensued, where I expect 'Daniels' begged for his life. "You heard me before." His eyes were straight ahead, as though this person was in the room with us. "I hope you said goodbye to your kids, Daniels, because you're about to have their insides tied around your neck."

My eyes widened and I covered my mouth with my hands. Moriarty hung up, looking down, surveying his phone with a look of indifference, before looking back up at me. "Where were we?"

"You just killed him," I muttered, my mind still trying to process what had just ensued.

"What?" Moriarty asked, eyebrows raised.

"You just killed an entire family!"

Moriarty's eyes softened, and he tilted is head to the side, "Darling, that's what I do. I kill people. Or, I help people kill people."

"What am I doing?"

"What?"

"What am I doing letting you stick around? It was never real to me. You were never real to me!"

He frowned, "I'm doing this because someone asked."

"His children! His husband! You're killing them, too!" His expression froze, eyebrow furrowed. Then his face cracked into a grin, before he started all out _laughing_! "What are you laughing about!?" I yelled, but he just laughed harder. "This isn't funny, Moriarty!"

"Darling…" he wheezed between breathes, "Daniels doesn't… _have_ children!"

"But you said-

"Daniels is a terrorist who I relocated to the country last year! Since then he became a _goat_ herder! Kids!"

I stood there, frozen in my astonishment and anger. So, _this_ was how John felt all the time. Slowly I opened my mouth, "You're not serious."

"I am."

"You could've said goats!"

"It sounds more evil if you said kids."

"Yeah, to _me_!" I sighed, "God, I was scared for a second."

"I never need to kill the children," Moriarty shrugged, "Whenever I bring the up, the victim does what I ask without question. You have kids, you're just asking them to be threatened." He looked me in the face, suddenly curious, "Do you want children?"

"What, with you?"

"Maybe…"

"No."

"What?" Moriarty pouted, "Why?"

"How on earth would I be a good mother? I have no experience! No good role model! My childhood was spent mocking the government and avoiding the bible like the plague! My parents didn't care about me enough to let me eat more than once per _day_! The next sets of parents cared even _less_!"

"Yeah, but now you know what not to do."

"Too risky."

He raised his eyebrow, "Now you're just looking for excuses."

"Jim, I don't want children. I don't even want _goats_. Well, actually…"

"It'd destroy your furniture."

"So would children!"

* * *

 **So, tell me how you liked it, give me ideas, etc.**


	12. Chapter 12 - New Zealand

**I don't have much to say about this chapter. I've found myself some filler and got myself where I need to go, so thanks for that. Also, thank you to anyone who reviewed, especially to Guest (sorry, don't have your name) for the vacation idea. Also, I'm sorry this chapter was so late! The updates are going to be slower from here on out. My life is getting really packed with the combination of school and home and theatre. Sorry again, PLEZ FORGIVE MEH!**

* * *

Chapter 12

New Zealand

The next day, John came back from New Zealand. Sherlock and I were in Baker Street, arguing about my book. I was trying to get him to read it, like I'd promised, and he wasn't cooperating. I'd even promised his a cigarette per chapter, which was the only reason he had the book in his hands.

"It's not even good!" he whined as I watched his eyes move speedily across the page.

When he finished it, I stopped him, asking, "So what happened on this page?"

"Do you really not trust me that much?" he grumbled.

"What happened?"

"We met your character, she-

"Her name?"

Sherlock sighed exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes, "Blanc."

"Continue."

The next few pages went the same way. Sherlock was in the middle of describing the seventeenth when the door opened and a disgruntled John entered the flat with his lumpy, over stuffed suitcase. Sherlock didn't turn around, but I smiled, "John! Welcome back!"

"John, save me," Sherlock sighed sarcastically, "Did you get milk?"

"Sherlock, I just came back from New Zealand."

"I was wondering why you weren't bringing random girls back here all the time."

"How's Sarah?" I jumped in, before John could respond. His face fell and I frowned, "Not good?"

"We…uh…we broke it off," he gasped, dropping his suitcase, "But, you know, job like this doesn't allow for much romantic flexibility."

"She thought you were gay, didn't she?" I asked, trying to hide my amusement.

"Every time!" John groaned. I chuckled and looked sideways at Sherlock, who didn't seem to understand completely that he was the immovable romantic block in question. He literally warded away girls.

"Listen, man, I'm sorry. You'll be alright. Besides, what do you prefer; a sound, normal life with a wife, kids, or a crime-solving, perceived-to-be-gay life of no return."

"I'd love a wife and kids," John shrugged.

"Not enough danger," Sherlock smirked, "Maybe if you married an assassin…"

"Or a terrorist!" I laughed.

"I am _not_ marrying an assassin or a terrorist!" John denied from the stairs as he began to make it up to his room, the clunk of the suitcase echoing down the staircase, "Where would I even _meet_ an assassin?"

"There's always the Golem," I laughed, listening to John gag before continuing on his way.

* * *

One month later, I had my story done. It ended on such a beautiful cliffhanger that had me shaking with excitement over what I'd write next. I had, however, made myself leave for a week and leave my laptop behind.

Why, you ask?

Because every time I finished a book, I got so excited with creative energy that I needed to take a break and catch up with my thoughts and plot my plot.

I'd gone to Ireland after my first book because it was so close and income was low, America, and Mexico. This time I'd decided to take a page out of John's book and head to New Zealand. I had it all planned out; I was going to go snorkeling, bungee jumping, white water rafting, and finish with the Hobbiton Movie Set.

So, that's why I found myself in a beautiful, calming hotel room, curled up on the couch with the hobbit. I'd told Sherlock and John that I was leaving and planted my books around their flat. Sherlock had no idea that I was actually manipulating him into reading my books against his will.

I'd gone hiking that morning in an effort to distract myself from the world of business, and had come home covered in sweat and grime. I had, however, seen the Hobbit book lying on the table. Every time I told myself ' _one more chapter_ ' I felt as though I was becoming more and more dirty and disgusting. Finally, I managed to force myself to put the book down and walk into the bathroom, strip, and take a warm, relaxing shower. I sighed as my entire body relaxed and I began to plan some more. I knew that I'd have to kill someone key in this book, since I'd neglected to eliminate a key character last book. Magnussen had been right about the movie, as well. Barely a week after the interview, I'd been contacted by a movie director to ask permission to make a movie out of book one and see where it went from there. I'd told them I'd think on it.

Magnussen's article still hadn't come out, which was surprising to me, since he'd had a month to write it up. I assumed that he had too many important news articles to spare room for mine, and I wasn't too worried as long as it showed up somewhere next week.

At long last, I clambered out of the shower, dried myself off, and wrapped a white towel around my body in an effort to conserve the warmth from the water. The minute I opened the door I heard a gasp.

"Hell- _o_ , Darling!"

I froze for a second. Then, "HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK MORIARTY!"

The suit-clad consulting criminal leaned forward on my bed, a sneer twisting his maniacal face. I became aware of how revealing the towel I was wearing was, and I immediately scanned the room for any clothing I could find. There was a pair of black sweat pants lying on the bed next to Moriarty.

"Can you pass me those?" I asked, knowing that he would refuse.

Jim just smirked wider, "Come and get it."

"Not happening."

"Fine," he sighed, throwing the pants at me. I caught them somewhat clumsily, as I was still clinging to the towel for dear life, before searching desperately with my eyes for a shirt. Finding nothing, I backed up into the bathroom and pulled on the sweats, wrapping my upper body in the towel.

"How'd you know I was here?" I interrogated as I rifled through my suitcase for a shirt.

"Well," he grinned, "I stopped by your place this morning to say hi, and you weren't there, so I flew here."

" _So you flew here_?"

"Yeah," Jim shrugged, big, brown, doe eyes deliberately dragged up to mine, "I missed you."

"Aww, how sweet," I pouted, "Fuck off."

Jim held a hand to his heart in mock offense, obviously hiding his amusement. "Is this what I get for trying to be polite?"

"It was acknowledged. Just not accepted."

"Then what's the point?" Jim whined, falling back on the bed.

"Take your goddamn shoes off!"

"Why?"

"I sleep in that bed, motherfucker, so take your shoes off it!"

I found a shirt as Moriarty kicked his shoes across the room, narrowly missing my skull. "You know, I never understood why girls were so shy. I mean-

"I'm gonna stop you right there." I narrowed my eyes, glaring at Moriarty as I made my way across the room again and slipped into the bathroom, pulling the shirt over my soaking head and checking in the mirror to make sure that it wasn't super revealing. When I was satisfied, I walked back out, "Why were you looking for me?"

"I told you; I missed you!"

"Really?" I asked skeptically, finding his excuse unlikely.

"Yes! Is that so hard to believe?"

I sighed and shook my head, "And you _flew_ here?"

"Via private jet, of course."

"Oh, yes, of course," I teased him, "Private jet, I should've known."

"I'm rich," he shrugged, gesturing to the immaculate, navy blue suit he had donned for the occasion, "Look at me."

"So am I, jackass," I laughed, "But you don't see me spending it on expensive clothes and shit like that."

Jim didn't say anything, electing to stay down. I laid back down on the couch and curled up with the Hobbit again, falling right back in where I'd left off. Outside, the light began to dim as the sun sank behind the distant mountains. I finished the book and walked over to my bag, taking the Lord of the Rings out of my suitcase. When I looked back at the bed, Jim seemed to be asleep.

"Moriarty, I need to sleep on that, you know."

"Mmph."

"Jesus Christ, can't you fly home?"

"I can, but I don't _want_ to!"

"You're such a big baby," I said, trying not to laugh. Seriously, the way Jim could be a murderous, terrifying hell beast, and the next minute he could be a dumb, whining infant. I almost wanted to treat him like how he acted, so I pulled a cross face and said, "Sweetie, you have to get off the bed. Mommy wants to sleep there!"

Jim sat up, grinning, "But daddy wants to sleep with mommy!"

I sighed in defeat, "I'll just use the couch."

* * *

Moriarty stayed the entire week, refusing to leave. Meaning that I had to deal with him when I was packing up to leave. "D'you want help with that?" I heard from behind me, and I turned around hopefully.

"Yeah, actually, that'd be-

"Too bad," he sneered, "C'mon, we're gonna be late."

I stopped, dropping my bulging suitcases to the ground. "Excuse me?" I hissed, "We? I am _not_ riding on a _public_ plane with _you_!"

"Who said it'd be a public plane?" Jim rolled his eyes, "Baby, I came here on a private plane and I'm not gonna change that about me just for you."

I pouted sardonically, "Aw, I thought you loved me."

"I love proper air conditioning more, darling," Jim snapped flatly, brushing past me out the door.

I snatched the back of his suit and pulled him back, so that I was glaring him in the face. "Hey, mister, you're helping me with these bags."

"Darling, I'm a crime lord. I am _not_ helping you with your bags."

"What about _your_ stuff?"

"I had a henchman take it away while you were downstairs eating."

I frowned, "You are helping me, James Moriarty, so grab a bag."

"Why'd you bring so much stuff?" Jim whined as I forced a suitcase handle into his hand.

"I brought two bags, Moriarty, and they're nothing compared to John's, so suck it up."

Finally, I got Jim to follow me halfheartedly downstairs, dragging one of two of my suitcases behind him. "Are we still going to the airport?"

"Nah," Moriarty sighed, placing a hand on the small of my back and steering me in another direction. "There's a car outside and a private airport on the other side of the mountain."

I rolled my eyes, "Jesus Christ, you are _so_ childish!"

"Yeah," he moaned, "But it's a private _jet_!"

"Fine."

Jim grinned and pushed me out the door, waving to an immaculately dressed chauffeur standing next to a beautiful limousine. I turned to Jim and raised my eyebrow, to which Jim responded with a gloating smile and another nudge. "If you shove me one more time I swear."

Moriarty, of course, responded by dragging me towards the car.

The ride was pretty much hell. Jim kept nudging my foot with his until I kicked him in the shin with the heel of my sneaker.

When we made it to the airport, Jim got out of the car and actually opened the door for me, which was surprising since seconds before I'd had been driven to kicking madness by his wandering shoes.

"That's the jet," Jim pointed, and I had to admit that I _was_ glad that I'd chosen to go with Jim rather than on the normal plane. Honestly, the jet was _beautiful_. It was sleek and black, and the sun reflected off it so much that it was nearly blinding. Jim caught me looking and leered, grabbing my wrist and yanking me over to the stairs, pulling me inside the jet.

"Why the hell did you buy yourself a jet, but not…say…your own flat? Maybe…you know…stay away from mine?"

Jim held his hand to his chest, offended. "Do you not love me?"

"Right-eo."

"Right-eo?" Jim laughed.

"Well, I'm never saying _that_ again."

After a few more minutes, the plane took off, and I yawned to pop the air bubbles in my ears. Jim offered me a piece of gum, already chewing a piece of his own. I accepted it and popped the mint into my mouth, chewing it until it was soft enough to blow bubbles. The ride was only a few hours, and, for the majority, I looked out the window, while Jim looked at me.

Finally, the plane began to sink in the sky, and I saw the darkness outside. London was eleven hours behind where I'd been staying in New Zealand, and it was twelve in the afternoon for me, but it was eleven PM here.

"Time to get off," Jim grinned, standing up and straightening his suit jacket and stretching. I copied him, my hands splaying along the roof of the cabin as I reached my arms to the sky.

"Where are we?"

"Outside my home."

" _Your_ home?" I asked, surprised.

"You should come in! We can have a sleepover!"

I shook my head, backing up away from Moriarty. "By sleepover, you mean…what…twelve hours of sex?"

"You want to have sex?" Jim purred excitedly, one eyebrow raised.

"No, _you_ want to have sex, and that's not happening."

Jim sighed unhappily, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking away deliberately. "Too bad there's no taxi service out here. And no bus routes go by here. And all my men are away in their beds, so no one can drive you home. Whoops."

"That still doesn't mean I'm sleeping with you, asshole," I growled, my eyebrow twitching angrily. After a week of nonstop Jim, I was fed up with Moriarty's tactics by now.

"Too bad-

"'Too bad' what?" I sighed, "Too bad there's only one bed in your home?"

"Yes, actually. Only one bed. Sorry."

"I'm just gonna ask the pilot to drive me home. The pilot's still awake, right?"

"I'll order him to go to sleep."

" _I'll_ order him to do as I say!"

"I'll shoot him!"

"Christ," I gasped, "You want me to stay _that_ bad?"

"Yes, please!" Moriarty pouted, holding his arms out as though asking for a hug. I frowned, shaking my head again, and turned around to walk out the door. Apparently, Moriarty wasn't taking no for an answer. He lunged at me and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his forehead in the crook of my neck.

"Am I the only adult on board?" I groaned, "Get _off_ , Jim." When he didn't do what I asked, I growled and elbowed him in the chest. Moriarty let go, but dragged me out of the jet by my wrist. The pilot was waiting on the ground by the stairs. He opened his mouth to speak, but Moriarty sent him a look that blatantly said _shut up or die_. The pilot gave Moriarty a knowing look. That look that said _he's gonna get laid_. While we were playing the nonverbal game, I glared first from the Pilot, then to Moriarty, with a face that said _he is most certainly_ not _getting laid_.

"Jim, I'm not even tired! I feel like it's the middle of the day!"

"Good, 'cos we're not sleeping. Come _on_ , darling, just do what I ask."

"Not in your life, Moriarty."

"Death might be worth it…"

I sighed, hanging my head. This guy… He was a total ass one minute, then had the audacity to say something romantic! I didn't know how to feel about him, but at this point, I didn't have much of a choice. He had my wrist in a viselike grip, and he was dragging me so quickly that I couldn't manage to find any friction as the toes of my shoes were nearly dragged down the wooden floor of his small house.

The furnishing of his home was immaculate. All blacks, with occasional reds and whites added into the mix. It was pitch black, and I could barely make out my surroundings. Moriarty let go of me and a second later the door shut, plunging us into pitch black darkness. I couldn't see my hand, even when I waved it in front of my face, and I was afraid to move in case I hit a wall or something. "Moriarty, I swear…"

No response.

"Moriarty?"

Nothing. I was beginning to wonder if he'd abandoned me or something. It didn't seem likely, but Moriarty was typically unpredictable.

"Moriarty, where'd you go?"

"Funny you should ask," an Irish accent growled from right behind me, as I was hugged from behind, arms wrapping tightly around my waist and holding me against the warm body of James Moriarty. I squealed in surprise and felt a chuckle flutter against my shoulder.

"Moriarty, let go!"

Jim's hot breath tickled my neck, curling up my ear and then down my jaw. Bear in mind that during this entire process, I was completely blind. I struggled against Moriarty's grip, trying desperately to pry his arms off my midriff, but my efforts were futile. He just stood there, legs braced against mine, breath travelling over the side of my face. I had a feeling that Moriarty was thoroughly enjoying this opportunity to torture me; to do what _ever_ he wanted to me without my foresight. His body radiated heat as he pressed up against me, occasionally laughing as I tried to free myself. The constant expulsion of energy eventually tuckered me out, and I grudgingly laid back, panting.

"Tired already?" Jim purred, his breath now somewhere around my right shoulder. I stayed still, choosing not to respond. He took that as a yes, however, and correctly so. "What to do…what to do…" Jim sang softly, his teeth grazing my ear. I strained again halfheartedly, but gave up almost immediately.

"How can you even see?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice even in a last-ditch effort to retain any of my fighting dignity that remained in the situation.

"I've always liked the dark."

"What are you? Some kind of vampire?"

I felt Jim chuckle as he guided me slowly along the wooden floor towards a destination that only he could see. "I can be," he drawled, pulling my attention back to focus directly on him.

"Don't-!

Too late. Moriarty's teeth found the crook of my neck and I gasped, biting my lip to keep from giving him any more satisfaction. He made a noise of amusement at my protest but, before I could collect enough words to put together a sentence, I was spun around to face the reptilian predator that had me in his grasp, though I could still see nothing.

"What shall I do with you now?" Moriarty mused, and I felt a warm finger trace my jawline. "Such an opportunity…I don't intend to waste it…do you?" I didn't respond, too busy trying to figure out what was pressing against the back of my legs. Moriarty had me pinned against something, but I couldn't tell what. "Hmm," Moriarty hummed, his mouth what I presumed to be inches from mine. "You haven't spoken in quite some time, Ari. I know! I'll loosen that tongue of yours…"

* * *

 **(Moriarty's POV)**

"I know! I'll loosen that tongue of yours…"

Moriarty pressed his lips roughly against Ari's, savoring every bit of her, from the sweet taste of her lips to the delicious struggle she was displaying. I growl rose in the back of his throat as he pressed his tongue against her lower lip, attempting to force his way into her mouth. Ari kept her lips tight shut, her eyes frantic as she tried to spot him. He could see her fairly well, as well as the rest of his house, but evidently, she couldn't see a thing. He liked it better that way.

When she refused to give him access to her mouth, Moriarty jammed one finger into her side, gaining both a tantalizing yelp of surprise and an opening. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and explored her, fighting with her own tongue as she tried to break the kiss. Ari leaned back, seeking freedom, but only toppled backward, landing on his black silk bedsheet.

"Eager, are we?" Moriarty purred, surveying Ari's form as she scrambled away from him.

" _You_ might be…" she bit back, a nervous grin gracing her features as she reached the headboard and leaned against it.

Moriarty sighed in sheer gratefulness that he had managed to pick this woman out of the thousands of others in London. Not many shared her wit, her bravery, her astonishing appearance… Moriarty's mind whirred with jumbled thoughts, most of which consisted of things that he would do to the girl lying on is bed cushions, but throughout each thought was an underlying message:

 _I_ want _this woman!_

It was true, Moriarty wanted this multicolored, feisty little vixen, possibly more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He was he villainous James Moriarty; the richest and most dastardly man in all of England. Anything he wanted for he could take or have brought to him, even the great Sherlock Holmes.

But not Ari. She was something else. No matter how hard he tried, she wouldn't let him have her. She remained disobedient. Most pets would learn to do what he commanded, at least after proper training, but not her. Her stubbornness was everlasting, as was her defiance. No amount of punishment would shake those two qualities from Ariadne Caelum.

But it wouldn't be from lack of trying.

* * *

 **(Ari's POV)**

I stared around, trying to determine where Jim was by the sound of his voice. I was pretty sure that he was at the foot right now, but what he was planning was a mystery to me. I had to admit, I was rather enjoying myself. Mainly because this was the most arousing experience I had ever had in my life. Everything about Moriarty screamed sex. His Irish lilt left me speechless; his hands spread goosebumps over my skin; everything he said was seductive. I was having a hard time denying him, but if I gave up now, he'd have won too easily, and I refused to let that happen. Still, the fact that just his one-sided foreplay was better than any sex I'd ever experience had me speculating on how lucky I was that this man was spending his time with me.

Not only that, but how good the sex itself be. I wanted to save it for a special occasion. More than that, I really just wanted to keep my clothes on.

"What does one do when a beautiful woman so kindly lays herself down on one's bed?" he mused. His voice chilled my voice and warmed my core, making butterflies flutter excitedly in my stomach. I wanted him so much it hurt, but my logical side was still awake and the insistent voice inside my head refused to let me give myself up so easily.

I was shaken from my thoughts when I heard two hollow clunks and the rustle of fabric. He'd thrown his shoes and what I hoped was just his jacket aside. "You'd better still be wearing clothes, Moriarty!" I hissed.

He laughed, "I had to leave some for you to amuse yourself with, did I not?" I felt the mattress sink a little towards the end of the bed, where Jim had no doubt climbed on. Next, I felt a warm hand reach my ankle and sat up, looking around. It was easier to track Moriarty's movements when the bed indented wherever he resided, but I still didn't know what to expect from him. I cried out as I was dragged towards him, though even now I couldn't pinpoint his body in the sea of darkness. I heard a dark laugh above me and Jim's lips plunged onto mine, devouring me like a starving man offered a feast. His sent engulfed me; the smell of vanilla and cinnamon invading my nostrils and working their way through my blood to my brain. He bit my lower lip and pulled away, and I could imagine the sneer plastered on his face. My hands found his chest as I tried to push him off me, and I sighed in relief as my hands first encountered a silky undershirt. He grunted and pushed me back against the headboard, pinning my wrists on either side.

"I can't see a thing, Moriarty!" I yelped as his lips found my shoulder and worked their way up my neck to my jaw, "Turn a light on!"

"I don't think so, _darling_ ," Moriarty purred right next to my ear, "Don't you prefer it this way? When I can do what _ever_ I want with you and there's _nothing_ you can do about it? Oh, the possibilities…"

I stayed silent again, worried that Moriarty would twist whatever I chose to respond with. He even managed to twist my silence, however. "Ah, I see you've learned your place," he hummed, his soft breath tickling my nose.

I frowned, sitting up straight and leaning forward until I felt his forehead against mine. "Not quite…" I sneered, gaining a sharp intake of breath from my quarry. I had a feeling that Moriarty hadn't been expecting me to play his little game, especially with my lack of sight, but I knew what he was doing and if I turned the tide, maybe I could get him to let me sleep tonight.

* * *

 **(Moriarty's POV)**

Moriarty was taken aback by her sudden forwardness. His plans with her all involved a docile, submissive Ari, but he now saw that that was never going to happen. He cursed himself for not foreseeing her reaction. But no matter; his mind was already far ahead, trying to find another way to come out on top in the situation.

"You sneaky little _vixen_ ," he growled, his mouth practically on hers, and he felt her shudder against him.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Ari retorted, and Moriarty pulled back, letting go of her wrists and kneeling in front of her to survey her fully. Her gold and white hair was disheveled, and her pupils were dilated so far that both of her eyes seemed to be pitch black. Her chest was heaving in what he assumed was both nervousness and arousal. He loved that he could do this to her with just a few touches and the sound of his voice. She was an impeccable choice, a fact that he couldn't help but play over and over inside his head.

"It was _meant_ to be a compliment," Jim purred, reaching out and stroking the side of her face. Ari simply turned her head to the side, giving him a good view of her unblemished, porcelain neck. Never one to miss an opportunity, he lunged from his position and attacked her neck, his hands pulling her waist against him as his mouth did the real work, moving along the exposed side of her neck. Ari moaned, the first substantial noise he'd managed to get out of her, and he picked her up onto his lap before she could right herself.

Ari fought, of course, trying to squirm her way out of his grip, but she was so disoriented that Moriarty was easily able to manage her. She gasped when he kissed her collar bone before biting her lip, trying to keep from giving his any more rewards. "Not so stubborn now…" Jim growled, his hands slipping under her shirt and slowly working their way up her waist.

"Stop!"

"Why should I?" Moriarty mused, his mouth less than an inch from her own.

"I'll sleep with you with no question if you stop right now."

Moriarty froze, his hands right below her breasts and his mouth right above. "You'll sleep with me? With no question?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Feisty little-

"James Moriarty, I am offering you the opportunity to sleep with a completely passive me in your own bed, an opportunity that I doubt will ever come up again. Are you going to do what I ask or not?"

"Trying to take control, are you?"

"Jesus, Jim, just take the offer and let me get some rest or you won't hear another peep out of me no matter what you do."

"But those noises of yours are the _best_ part!" Jim whined.

"Exactly. Let me rest."

Moriarty sneered, examining the suddenly powerful girl in his arms. Her eyebrows were knit in a look of stubborn command, and he knew that she would remain true to her word. He nodded, more to himself than to her, before dropping her onto the bed again and holding her down. "You owe me a night, darling, when _ever_ I choose," he whispered, "A _whole_ night, filled with whatever… _activities_ …I desire."

Ari frowned, thinking for a second, "As long as it's not tonight."

"Naturally."

She thought a little bit more, probably weighing her options, before nodding decisively and holding up her hand. "Deal."

Moriarty shook immediately, already brainstorming the hours he would spend with her, what he would do to her, how she would scream for him and how he would torture her for making him wait. He rolled over, off of her, and she immediately pulled up the blankets and snuggled in underneath. Her eyes were closed, though it didn't make much of a difference to her, since she couldn't see anyway. "When you say without question…" he began, curious, "Do you mean I can do what I want and you won't question it?"

"Within reason."

"Such as…?"

"I don't know. I just don't want to have sex right now."

"As long as it's not sex?"

"I'm keeping my clothes on, Jim, and so are you."

"Damn."

Ari chuckled slightly, opening her eyes to try to find him in the darkness. Jim grinned and wormed his way under the blanket next to her. The next ten minutes passed in silence, only to be broken by a squeal on Ari's part.

"Jim!"

"What?" Jim sneered innocently.

"You know what!"

He sighed and removing his hand from between her thighs, loving her reaction. "You're _way_ too uptight, Ari. You should really relieve some of that stress. If you'd just let me continue…"

"We shook on it, Jim. And besides, the vacation was _supposed_ to relieve my stress. It was working fine until _you_ showed up."

"It's your fault for being so damn irresistible, darling."

"It's _your_ fault for following me to New Zealand! You could've just texted me!"

"Phone sex never really did it for me, sweetheart, so you'll just have to deal with me in the flesh."

"I wasn't proposing _phone sex_ , you perverted, horny bastard."

"You want me; admit it. You love the idea of me having my way with you…of doing things to you that you haven't even dreamed of. You want me to take you for the wildest ride of your life."

"Actually, right now I want to sleep," she bit back, but he could tell that his words were having an effect on her composure.

"I swear to you, tonight you will dream about me, and hopefully dream-me will have at least a fraction of my talent."

"I don't dream about you, Moriarty."

"You _will_."

"Sure, whatever. Just let me sleep, will ya?"

"Fine."

Ari looked up at him for a second, daring him to say anything more, before she rested her head against her pillow and shut her eyes, her head even with his chest. The minute her eyelids closed, Jim wrapped his arms around her, one at her hip and one at her neck, holding her tightly against his chest. She opened her mouth to protest, but he sneered, "Without question, darling."

* * *

 **I don't have much to say about this chapter. I've found myself some filler and got myself where I need to go, so thanks for that. Also, thank you to anyone who reviewed, especially to Guest (sorry, don't have your name) for the vacation idea. Also, I'm sorry this chapter was so late! The updates are going to be slower from here on out. My life is getting really packed with the combination of school and home and theatre. PLEZ FORGIVE MEH!**


	13. Chapter 13 - New Case

**I hope this chapter lives up to expectations, and I'm sorry, but some parts of my life can't be molded to fit my writing needs. I** _ **did**_ **recently convert some friends to the art of fanfic writing, and I'm quite proud at how far they've come. I don't own anything but Ari, etc. etc. Enjoy and please tell me what you think.**

 **Also, I refuse to give up on this story, so don't worry. I had to completely rewrite this chapter, because I backed myself into a corner on multiple occasions, but I think that this version will work out.**

 **~ Lore**

 **P.S.**

 **In England, pants means underwear, for all you Americans and anyone else. It may not seem relevant, but it'll come up.**

* * *

Chapter 13

New Case

 **(Moriarty's POV)**

Jim's long eyelashes fluttered open as a bright light made the translucent black curtains glow a little. The entire room was still dim, and he was content to lie there in his bed, all by his lonely little lonesome…

He wasn't alone.

He sat up, careful not to disturb Ari, who he had forgotten about until that moment. She only mumbled a little, her head snuggling against his hip. He looked down at the beautiful woman, her softly changing expressions illustrating what seemed to be a pleasant dream or thought. Her gold and white hair rustled occasionally, reflecting the fading light and making her entire face glow like that of an angel. How had he let such a virtuous-looking figure into his bed?

A wicked sneer spread across Moriarty's face as he remembered last night, recalling every arousing detail, from the fruity smell of her hair to the minty taste of her mouth, the feeling of her overly soft skin against his lips, the constant stubborn attitude which she upheld in every situation he put her through.

The deal they'd made, and the way she'd manipulated him so perfectly, making Moriarty think that he had in fact won something when she was the only one who had truly gained anything. His mind had been too clouded from testosterone to see her motives. Last night had been great for him, but his entire goal was to get her in bed, meaning that he had spent all his time pleasuring her. All work, no play. And on top of that, she'd ultimately refused his offer, tricking him into letting her run free with the promise of more sex later.

Moriarty knew that he should have hated that little vixen for weaseling her way out of his grasp, but he couldn't have been more proud. Ari was the perfect match for him. She was clever, feisty, not to mention beautiful. She was the lock to his key, in more ways than one, he hoped.

Moriarty was dragged back to earth when the girl in his arms mumbled again. He slipped back down under the covers, trying to discern what she was saying. He couldn't make out the first bit, but the next part made up for it.

" _Moriarty_ …" she moaned quietly, a smile on her face as her legs stretched under the covers.

"I always knew I could make you moan," Moriarty purred, his mind reeling in gladness. He loved that he could invade her mind, her thoughts, and even her dreams, and by the sound of it, dream-Moriarty was doing a pretty good job. Ari's eyebrows furrowed as she shifted slightly, before her mismatched eyes blinked open to focus on his.

"…what…?" she groaned.

"Sleep well?" Jim asked, brushing a bit of Ari's hair out of her tired eyes.

"I still would be if it weren't for you," she whined, pouting and burying her head in his clothed chest in an attempt to block out the bit of light that had managed to shine its way through the drapes.

"Have any good dreams?"

Ari's eyes shot open and a blushed rose on her otherwise pale face. "Um…no?"

"Oh, really now?" Jim mused, "Because it sounded like you were having a pleasant encounter."

Her face reddened even more and her eyes narrowed. "What did I do?" she interrogated him, to which he shrugged.

"Oh…nothing…" Jim smirked, relishing the grumpy aura emanating from the woman in his arms.

"Moriarty, what did I do?" she asked dangerously.

"Nothing much…" he sneered, "Just…you know…moaned my name." Ari's face flushed scarlet in embarrassment, and he stroked her glowing cheekbone with his thumb, laughing as she became flustered. "I told you you'd dream of me, darling. Was I any good?"

"At sex?"

"Ooh, we had sex?"

She nodded slowly, pushing herself away from Moriarty, who only forced his way closer. "Did I do what I promised I'd do last night?"

"What did you promise to do?"

"I promised to fuck you senseless until the only word you knew was my name."

"Then I'm afraid you fell short of your task," Ari grinned, slipping her legs out of bed and standing up, doing a quick check to make sure that she was still wearing clothes (which Moriarty found to be one of the most adorable things she'd done so far) before stretching and beginning to walk off.

" _Ariiiiiiiii_!" Moriarty whined, "Come back to _beeeeed_!"

"I don't care how comfortable your bed is, Moriarty, I still want to go home."

"Five more minutes?"

"No."

"That sex you owe me? If you don't get your cute ass back here and cuddle with me, then I'll cash in that twelve-hour favor right this minute."

Ari spun around, her eyebrows raised as she surveyed Moriarty, trying to gauge whether he'd be true to his word. When she didn't move, another evil grin cracked Moriarty's face as he purposefully dropped his voice an octave or two and called, "I'll have one of my men clear your schedule…"

"Fine," she gave up and padded over to Moriarty, looking down at him from the side of the bed, "I'll cuddle with you. Christ, that deal was a _mistake_."

"Are you kidding? You got the best part out of it! You got sex! Not only that; you got sex with _me_! I'm _Mr._ Sex!"

"It's good to know that you're confident in your abilities," Ari sneered, her flat voice dripping with sarcasm. Moriarty rolled her eyes and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down next to him and immediately wrapping her in the blanket. She sighed, obviously comfortable, as her muscles visibly relaxed and her eyes fluttered. "When do I get to go home?"

"If I had my way…" Moriarty grinned, "…never."

"Aw, how romantic," Ari smiled, a real smile this time, and she rested her head under his chin.

"See? You love me."

"I wouldn't go that far, Mr. _Sex_ ," Ari purred, and he squeezed her a little to show his appreciation of the nickname. "Seriously, though, I have another novel to write, plus Sherlock and John'll be wondering where I am, and-

"The Virgin and Johnny-boy?" Moriarty frowned, "You're worried about the dynamic duo of suspiciously intimate blog detectives, rather than…say…the criminal mastermind who, by the way, could kill you in about seven different ways right now and make sure you enjoyed it?"

Ari pouted, "You'd kill me?"

"Maybe not…" Moriarty speculated, letting go of her and rolling onto his back, "I'd probably keep you in my basement for entertainment until you finally withered away from malnourishment or something."

"You've given this a great deal of thought."

"Not really. By now it's more of a reflex, you know?"

"Yeah, actually," she grinned jokingly, "Sometimes I plan ways to murder or manipulate people for shit and giggles. It just sort of happens, after all of my creating murder scenarios and stuff. If my novels crash and there's nowhere to run, then I'm ready for my life of crime."

"How would you kill _me_?" Moriarty asked eagerly, wanting to hear every detail.

"That one's fairly obvious, actually. Seduce you and kill you when you're busy unbuttoning my shirt or something. Easy."

"It almost seems worth it," Moriarty purred, rolling back over so that his face was inches from her own.

"Bear in mind that I _would_ be brutally murdering you _before_ we actually had sex." Moriarty pouted, though underneath, he was completely in love with this woman. Her mouth arched into a mischievous grin and she leaned up, her breath tickling his ear as she whispered, "See? _I_ can play, too."

"That, you can," Moriarty growled, surprised at her forwardness but certainly not complaining. He pushed her back against the pillow and was about to kiss her until she could barely think when there came a knock from the door.

"Boss!" a gravelly, deep voice shouted from outside the house, and Moriarty sat up, positively fuming.

"Not right now!" he yelled back, cursing his men for choosing that _exact_ moment to interrupt him.

"But Boss, you've got the Korean Political Leader on the phone!"

Moriarty looked back at Ari, who was obviously trying not to laugh. "Which one?!" Moriarty called, glaring at the sniggering girl, wrapped in his bedsheets.

"Which what?"

"Which Korea, imbecile!" Moriarty shouted over Ari, whose giggles had turned to laughs at his frustration.

"Hold on a sec!" the henchman called, and Moriarty could hear him mumbling into the receiver, "Which Korea again?" Ari was laughing so hard that she fell back onto the pillow and rolled around in the blanket. "The North one!" finally passed through the door, and Moriarty sighed.

"Sorry, darling, I've got to take this."

"Sure. Could you have someone drive me home?"

Moriarty pouted again, but nodded. He couldn't keep Ari here forever, no matter how hard he tried, so he figured she should just go back to her flat. "Yeah, I'll have someone drive you home. See you later?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"Nah." Ari laughed and got up, slipping out of bed again and running her hands carefully through her hair, trying to get any substantial knots out of the way.

"Boss, did you hear me!?"

Moriarty's eyes shone with venom, before he stormed to the door, pulled it open, grabbed the phone, and held the door open for Ari. She grinned and headed out, smiling at Jim and walking down the drive way. He watched her go, before ordering the henchman to take her back to Speedy's. Moriarty found that his mind was slipping away from the assassination planning, following his Ari down the street.

* * *

 **(Ari's POV)**

I spent the entire car ride thinking about Moriarty. His vanilla and cinnamon scent was spread all over me, and I didn't want to wash it off. Seriously, if there was one thing that man did right, it was his smell. Like an apple pie.

I was beginning to think in his voice, which was a little eerie, but I _had_ spent a week with him and only him, so it was bound to happen.

When I got home, I dropped my stuff in my flat and immediately pranced over to Sherlock's positively beaming. "Guess who's baaaack!" I sang when I opened the door, finding myself face to face with Sherlock.

"You, evidently," Sherlock groaned, taking a step back and allowing me to see his entire form. He was wearing the red dressing gown over normal clothes, a combination which he seemed to favor over normal garb.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Just John typing his blog and a stream of lousy clients."

"Oh, hey John!" I called, seeing the army doctor hunched over his _inferior_ laptop, typing each key in what was almost _painful_ slowness.

"Hello, Ari. Enjoy New Zealand?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but Sherlock beat me to it yet again. "She enjoyed last night; that's for sure."

"Sherlock!" I scolded, blushing.

"How _is_ Jimmy?"

I frowned, "He hasn't tried to kill me, so I'm not worried."

"He's a psychopath. He murder's people for a living."

"Listen, mister," I spat, "You're a psychopath, too, and we already agreed that John's gonna marry an assassin, so what's wrong with me sleeping with a serial killer?"

"I'm not a psychopath. I'm a high functioning so-

"Whatever."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and John went back to his typing. Sherlock and I stared each other down, both refusing to speak first. Finally, the tense silence was broken by the doorbell ringing.

"Right then," Sherlock sighed, wrenching his eyes off mine and pushing past me to the door, "What've we got?"

* * *

Over the next few months, I got the esteemed privilege of sitting back and watching Sherlock reject people left and right. It was rather entertaining, actually, to wake up to a pounding on my door and hear Sherlock calling "We've got another one" or something along those lines. I really felt included, and the newspapers were beginning to catch onto my involvement. Charles Magnussen's article finally came out, and I'd come into the kitchen one morning to find Moriarty, reading it aloud.

"…ever-stunning appearance…beautiful…isn't romantically involved…" he'd been reading to himself, his eyebrows furrowed, "Do I have competition?"

"Gimme that!" I'd frowned, snatching the article from his hands and reading it for myself.

 **Mystery on Both Ends**

 **An interview of Ari Caelum**

 **I find myself outside a rather old looking flat. Our dear Equinox is in the middle of quite a lot of action, with the recent bombing of the flat barely a meter away from her own. Not only that, but she resides directly across from the newly-famous hat detective, Sherlock Holmes.**

 **Her series of books,** ** _Masters of Disguise_** **, is about to receive its next installment, and the extensive fan base is buzzing with excitement at what the next book will bring. There are rumors circulating about a possible movie contract, rumors which I intend to confirm with this interview.**

 **I knock on the door and instantly a response is given. "The door's unlocked!" calls the clear voice of today's subject, and I push it open. I am immediately greeted by the ever-stunning appearance of Ms. Ari Caelum, who only recently released her true name to the public. It has to be admitted that once you get over the gold and silver hair and kaleidoscopic effect of her eyes, Ms. Caelum could actually pass for beautiful. She's wearing a casual grey t-shirt and ripped jeans, and if it weren't for her hair and eyes, she might seem like just the average person.**

 **Her flat is expertly furnished, and though it's small, it demonstrates just how successful her books have been. She offers me tea, and I accept, already intrigued. This young woman has certainly peeked my interest.**

 **I begin with the backstory, eager to learn more about Ms. Caelum's past. I ask her how long she's lived in London. She tells me she's lived in the city for twelve years, since she was only thirteen years old. I ask her where she lived before she came to London, and her somewhat happy expression melts a little. "Dartmoor," she says, "Small town. Not much happened there."**

 **I wonder how living in such a dull town gave her the inspiration for her books, with their constant action. She responds with an interesting twist. She tells me that the town was right next to a government facility, giving her ample opportunity to make up her own stories about their practices and whatnot. Until tragedy rears its head again. She tells me that a friend of hers lost his father, and it affected the poor boy in ways that no one deserves.**

 **I choose not to pry, instead pointing out that she mentioned her induction into the foster system in her explanation of the loss. Caelum refuses to explain, telling me outright that, unless it was absolutely relevant, she would prefer not to talk about her childhood in the system. I move on, understanding that the topic may be a tough one to talk about, even now.**

 **Instead, I direct her attention to a new question; where does she get her ideas? She asks me what I want to know, and I begin with possibly one of the most obvious wonderings in the minds of her readers: why did she make her main character American?**

 **Her response is simple. "It just came to me one day, I guess, that I'd written her to be less polite. More straight forward, like a stereotypical American. I suppose I always saw her as apart from the rest, and even though she's not very different from everyone, I needed something to complete her story. Coming from another place. She was banished when she was a little younger for dismantling part of the American government."**

 **I bring up the topic of her knew acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes. Her response is hesitant, but she eventually replies "He's utterly brilliant. Amazing. Sometimes he doesn't even seem human. And his partner, John Watson, is one of the nicest people I've ever met. Really, it's a pleasure to be allowed to work with them, despite the suspicion I have that Sherlock may not like me all that much. I guess you could say that I'm lucky that bomber blew up the flat next door, or I may never have met John and Sherlock."**

 **I ask what may be the most pressing question of the populous in regard to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I ask if they're romantically involved with each other.**

 **This time, Caelum's response is immediate. She laughed, "Not at all! If you're looking for some sort of closet romance, I wouldn't go after Sherlock Holmes!"**

 **I feel rather taken aback by the confirmation, but I move on to ask Ari about her romantic life. She tells me simply that she isn't romantically involved with anyone, at least currently. We move on.**

 **Finally, we come to the topic of her characters, more specifically one of her most famous ones. Brae Sheehan, the Irish killer. I asked her where she got her idea for the horrific yet alluring villain. Her response was quite intriguing. "I guess I wanted a different villain than what I've seen so far. I wanted a cooperative one, untouched by everything. Well, until Blanc came along."**

 **I ask her whether or not the relationship between Blanc and Brae reflects on her own, and she becomes flustered. I can see her beginning to blush as she hustles off to take the kettle from the stove top and poor me a cup. When she comes back, she denies it thoroughly, convincing me that there is no such man in London, or, hopefully, anywhere. Her final sentence can be left to interpretation.**

That morning had been the start to a tough day.

Later that evening, I found myself lounging in Sherlock's chair, filling in for John, who was away in Dublin, and trying to ignore the startling heat of early March. I was writing and ignoring Sherlock's choppy pacing. "Just _one_!"

"Sherlock, you're battling addiction," I started crossly, not even bothering to take my eyes off my computer screen, "I'm not about to let you succumb to your smoking habits."

Sherlock spun around leaning down until his face was directly in front of mine and his hands on my knees. "Ari, please, I'm begging you!"

I raised one eyebrow and slowly pushed Sherlock out of my face, saying, "Quit bein' pathetic. Sherlock, if you could see yourself right now, you'd sure be disappointed. Listen, mister, you've gotta get your act together. I thought you were stronger than this!"

"Yes, _mother_ …"

"Less salt, young man!"

"You two!" was called from downstairs, "You've got another one!"

The nicotine hound immediately raised his curly head, jumping over the coffee table to get to the door. I settled back into the chair to wait for Sherlock to call "Get out" or "Boring", but he didn't. Instead, Sherlock's baritone voice came barreling up the stairs.

"Ari!"

I immediately bolted for the door, leaping over the table and taking the stairs two at a time. I don't know what I'd been expecting; something interesting? Something surprising? Something involving Moriarty, maybe?

Instead, I found an obese, middle aged man out cold on the floor.

"Grab a glass of water."

* * *

"Tell us from the start. _Don't_ be boring."

The typical beginning to Sherlock's interrogations. He had so much free time, yet he refused to give his conversation starters any thought.

After a pause, the man began. "Well, I'm drivin' in the middle of nowhere. Country, you know. And then my car begins to stall. And I'm thinkin' _you've gotta be kidding me_ , because I've no idea where I am…and then I-I see this man, standin' and starin' at the sky. Well, I try to fix my car, obviously, and I mess around with the connections for a little bit. When I get back in, I try to start the engine, but the damn thing backfires! And I look out at the man again, and he's lyin' on the ground!"

I cocked my head to the side, beginning to see where this was going. Was it an assassination? Did the car backfiring mask the sound of a gunshot?

"So I-I yell _Hey! Are you okay?!_ , but he doesn't say anythin'. So I-I get out of my car, and I start walkin' towards him, and I say _Excuse me! Are you alright?!_ but he doesn't respond again. And when I s-see 'im, he's…he's…"

"Dead, yes?"

He took a dry gulp and opened his mouth, before deciding against a response and just nodding.

Sherlock looked at me. "Six."

"It's John's turn!"

"Fine. John!"

"He's not here, Sherlock."

"Of course," Sherlock said distractedly, and I got the feeling he hadn't heard a single word I'd said. He instead turned to the man. "Come back tomorrow."

"But…but don't you think this is…this is…"

"You'll be off to get questioned," Sherlock interrupted, gesturing to the door. The man looked confused for a moment, before his face went chalky white. I was afraid he was going to pass out again, and Sherlock obviously thought the same, because he walked behind the man all the way to the door before standing back and pointing through it, inviting me to leave.

"John's going out, yes?" I questioned, making sure to confirm with Sherlock in case he forgot and made me go out in the field anyway.

"Yes, Ari."

"Good," I grinned, grabbing my laptop and moving through the door. "Seeya tomorrow!"

No response. I was getting used to that, but I didn't mind. Sherlock wasn't easy to get along with I you minded courtesy. I was lucky I didn't.

* * *

I slipped into my flat, looking around for any signs that Moriarty might be in. They presented themselves immediately. A nice Westwood blazer hung off the back of my desk chair, and shining grey leather shoes rested alongside my slippers on the floor by the door. The minute I closed the door, Jim's singsong voice rang out from the living room. "Case?"

"Yep. You wouldn't happen to have anything to do with a man dropping dead by a river in the middle of nowhere, would you?" I called back, walking through my flat to him and sitting down on the couch next to the Consulting Criminal.

"A description like that doesn't ring any bells," Moriarty laughed, leaning back and stuffing his phone, which he had no doubt been talking on before I'd come home, back in his pocket.

I shoved him lightly and yawned. "I've gotta get up in the morning, so I'm gonna go to bed, mm-kay?" I didn't wait for a response, kicking my shoes off and plodding over to my room. "You can use the telly, but keep it down, will ya?"

Arms wrapped around my waist and I groaned, leaning my head back onto Moriarty's shoulder exasperatedly. " _Moriarty_ , I'm _exhausted_!"

"I am, too, which is why I'm sleeping with you," Jim smirked, tired eyes staring into mine with a look of finality which I was hellbent on challenging.

" _You_ can sleep on the couch, if you want to sleep at all."

"Are you saying I won't be getting any sleep in your bed?"

I grimaced, "Is there any way for me to get rid of you."

He pretended to think, tucking his chin on my shoulder and looking of into the distance. "Let me see…no."

"Well you're not sleeping with me. And I'm not sleeping on the couch, so that leaves you in the couch or on the floor. Or you leave my flat."

"Or…" I stumbled as all of Moriarty's surprisingly substantial weight was dropped on me, pushing me forward as he buried his face in the crook of my neck.

Moriarty's chuckle was muffled against my skin and I groaned again. " _What_ are you doing?"

"Sleeping somewhere other than your bed," the criminal responded in his tired, Irish accented voice. I shuddered and tried to shrug his head off.

"I almost fell thanks to you!"

"Mm-hm."

"You jerk!"

He shifted so that his chin was on my shoulder. "Such _harsh_ words. No need to be rude with me, darling, I mean no harm. Not _tonight_ , anyway."

I turned my head to look at him and saw a glint of mischief in his eye. "Jim, I told you, I want to sleep!"

"No one's stopping you," he chuckled, licking his lips and I felt one of his hands play across my hip.

"I don't feel _safe_ sleeping near you." I started to walk away to my bedroom, and he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, so that I was dragging him. "Jim, let _go_!"

"You felt safe before! I know. I heard you in your sleep, moaning my name. You were _very_ comfortable." I tried both hide a blush and unclasp his hands and he groaned in annoyance, hugging my shoulders tighter.

When I stopped struggling for even a moment, Moriarty took charge. He tried to walk me to my bedroom and I hastily dug my bare heels into the wood floor. "Don't be like that," he sighed, and I could hear both annoyance and mischief in his voice.

"Or what?" I asked, unable to keep a hint of playfulness out of my voice.

He growled, and I wondered for a second if he'd given up. I was, of course, wrong. I squealed when he wrapped his arms around my waist and hoisted me into the air, kicking and squirming the entire time. He laughed and pulled me into my bedroom, plopping me down on my bed and hopping down next to me. "There, was that so hard?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

I frowned, "I told you, no!"

"Nothing will happen!" he insisted, eyes wide in what I assumed was fake innocence. When I scoffed at his words, he continued, "I mean it!"

" _Sure_ you do…"

"Darling, I'm tired. I don't feel like sex right now."

"Oh, I feel _so_ much _better_."

"Come now, darling, you know you love me."

"Oh really?" I asked, raising my eyebrows, "It sounds like you've been misinformed." He didn't say anything, but he pouted, inching closer and leaning his head on the pillow beside me so that I was eye to eye with him.

"Baby, you can deny it, but you love me. I wouldn't have the leverage I do if you didn't."

"I want to change, Jim. Let me up for a sec."

"I'll let you up if you wear a bra to sleep…"

"Deal."

"…Every night."

I frowned, but was too tired to argue. We'd find a way to hash this out later, when I was more awake. I quickly pulled a pair of silky pajama pants out of the drawer I kept them in, hurrying to the bathroom (locking the doors as a precaution) and changing in privacy. I brush my teeth, my hair, and slipped my shirt off to reveal a black sports bra, which I wore out of comfort rather than fashion.

"I should've asked you to change out here!" Moriarty called through the door, and I held back a laugh. I supposed I kind of did love that guy, but I didn't know him well enough to accept it. Also, he was a criminal mastermind, so I didn't exactly trust him as much as I'd trusted previous partners.

I opened the door and froze. Moriarty was sitting on the edge of my bed, black eyes fixed on me, with nothing but his pants on. I stared at him for a second, and he stared right back. Finally, I three my clothes at my hamper and brushed past him into my bed, pulling up the covers and worming my way under.

"You're adorable," I heard Moriarty chuckled, and I pressed my head against the pillow, turning away from him to curl up in the warmth.

"Am nawt," I protested, (and yes, I pronounced it exactly the way that I wrote it).

"Are too," Jim laughed, joining me under the covers and wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me over to his side of the bed. I giggled and snuggled into the blanket, sighing contentedly and shutting my eyes as my breath synchronized with Moriarty's. He may have been hard to deal with, but he had managed to be sweet for once. That thought lingered in my mind well after I'd gone to sleep.

* * *

 **(Moriarty's POV)**

Moriarty's long eyelashes fluttered, his nose scrunching up as he fought to keep his eyes closed. A small sigh brought them flying open as he sat up, feeling the lack of warmth at his hip strange. He looked to his left, and saw a pile of gold and white hair, the only thing showing other than a large lump under the blankets. The pile slowly rose and fell, and Moriarty spent five minutes silently watching his Ari sleep.

His Ari.

 _She_ was _his, right?_

 _So, why was she over_ there _?_

Moriarty pondered this until he found it impossible to bear. He pulled the covers off of her, grinning as Ari groaned sleepily and, to Moriarty's joy, rolled over to squirm under the covers again.

Moriarty kept slowly pulling the blankets off her body, until she was pressed up against him in an attempt to stay warm. He could feel Ari's heartbeat against his chest, and he let her bury her head under his chin and use his naked chest as a pillow. Her legs tangled with his as she pulled her arms to her chest to conserve heat.

Moriarty easily wrapped his arms around the her. Just as he was settling down to kiss her forehead, Ari's eyes blinked open.

"….M-Moriarty…?" she mumbled sleepily, her hair rustling against his chin as she tilted her head upward, fixing him with a kaleidoscopic gaze.

"Morning, darling," Moriarty mused, leaning down to nuzzle Ari's nose and watch her slowly wake up. Instead of doing what Jim had expected, she buried her face in his chest again.

"What time is it?" he heard her mumble, and a chuckle escaped his lips.

"I don't have my watch on."

"There's a clock on the table."

Moriarty looked behind him, checking the alarm clock on the table. "'bout…uh…six thirty."

Ariadne groaned again and rolled away, before realizing that she didn't have a blanket. "Jim…" she frowned, "Where's my blanket. What'd you do?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Moriarty sneered, pulling the blanket over his body and scrutinizing her almost bare torso.

"Dammit, Jim," Ari pouted, trying to pull some of the cover away from him, which he refused to allow. When she didn't get what she wanted, she slipped her legs over the side and got up. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Have _fun_ ," Moriarty purred after her retreating form as she slumped into the bathroom and shut the door. A second later, the water turned on. It registered in his mind that he hadn't heard the lock click, and images began to form. Did she _want_ him to take her? Did he _care_? Nah.

"Hungry?!" Moriarty called, getting up and pulling his slacks on and moving to the kitchen.

"You'd better not raid my fridge!"

Moriarty laughed out loud and pulled his blazer on, not even bothering with the shirt. He was only heading over to Speedy's, after all. What would he get her? Did it matter? Could he even get back before she got out of the shower? Did he even need an excuse to barge into her bathroom, shove her against the wall and do everything he'd been wanting to do to her with the privacy of a shower curtain? He supposed she'd appreciate breakfast.

"Be right back!" he yelled, not even sure Ari had even heard him. She didn't respond, so he slipped out and jogged across the street and into the restaurant, eager to get back as fast as possible.

"She ordered a scone, right?" Moriarty muttered to himself, thinking back to when he'd been watching Ari on camera rather than in person. The man behind the counter looked up and tilted his head, something Moriarty chose to ignore.

"A scone, sir?" the man behind the counter asked, raising his eyebrow curiously.

"ASAP," Moriarty panted, unable to revive his businesslike composure that he would normally display in public.

"In a rush, sir?" the man asked as he fished an orange scone out of the bottom case.

"Oh yes."

"Something special, sir?"

"Just give me the damn scone," Moriarty snapped, looking over his shoulder at the window through which he could see Ari's flat. The bathroom door was closed. Why did she leave the curtains open, anyway? He'd have to make sure it was closed. He didn't want to give Sherlock and John a show.

The minute the man was done, Moriarty shoved £5 at the man and snatched the pastry out of his hands. "Keep the change," the criminal ordered, dashing out of the shop. _She'd better be naked. Please be naked. I swear, if she's done showering, I'm gonna punish her so bad, she'll never do anything without my express consent._

Moriarty scrambled up the stairs and burst through her door, kicking his shoes across the room and unbuttoning his blazer, dumping it haphazardly over Ari's desk chair. Just as he shut the door, the water turned off. "Shit!" Moriarty hissed, sliding over to the bathroom door and pressing his ear against the door. A satisfied sigh issued from behind the door, and his eyebrows shot up. What was she doing in there?

Unable to take the suspense, Moriarty pushed the door open and prepared to feast his eyes on the body he had been idealizing for months.

"Moriarty!"

A delicious squeal rent the air and Moriarty stood in the doorway, sneering as Ari desperately covered herself with a towel. Her skin glowed and her long legs were almost fully on display, ending barely past her inner thighs. She had one arm wrapped around her chest, but watching her flustered like this was enough of a turn on already.

"Nice legs," Moriarty purred, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of Ari's skin that he could see, and scheming ways to explore the rest.

"Moriarty, what the fuck are you _doing_!"

"You, hopefully," the criminal chuckled, noticing how Ariadne's hair darkened when it was wet, and how her whole body caved in an attempt to conceal anything she could from him.

"Why is it that you're always doing stuff like this!?" Ari yelled, "What the actual fuck!"

"I'm doing this because every time I do 'stuff like this', I see even more of your body. If I ask you to get in the shower with me, will you drop the towel?" Moriarty mused, advancing on her and holding up the pastry with one hand, while reaching for the end of the cloth with the other.

"Perverted asshole!"

"Yes, that sounds like me," Moriarty grinned, placing the scone down on the sink and toying with the edge of the cloth.

"Moriarty, I swear-!"

Moriarty kissed her roughly, his arms reaching around her back, which she was unable to cover. Her skin was soft and still warm from the shower, and a shiver ran down her spine at his touch. She seemed to yelp into his mouth, and he growled. Knowing that the only thing between him and her body was a loosely hanging towel was making it hard to restrain himself.

* * *

 **I hope this chapter lives up to expectations, and I'm sorry, but some parts of my life can't be molded to fit my writing needs. I** _ **did**_ **recently convert some friends to the art of fanfic writing, and I'm quite proud at how far they've come. I don't own anything but Ari, etc. etc. Enjoy and please tell me what you think.**

 **Also, I refuse to give up on this story, so don't worry. I had to completely rewrite this chapter, because I backed myself into a corner on multiple occasions, but I think that this version will work out.**

 **~ Lore**


End file.
